


Close to Me

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Bars, Baz's terrible boyfriend, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Cats, Cold Hands, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Dragons, Drinking, Falling In Love, Family, Family Fluff, Fencing, Fluff, Football | Soccer, Frozen Blood, Gift Giving, M/M, Mittens - Freeform, Pets, Post-Canon, Selfies, Sharing Clothes, Sketching, Snow Day, Sour Cherry Scones, artist Baz, ask prompts, cooking disasters, dangerous pets, domestic snowbaz, getting drunk, more tags to come as chapters added, out in the cold, out to dinner, secret notebooks, sleeping, tailored coats, using each other's name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:45:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: A collection of Simon and Baz stories.A series of ficlets written based on a Tumblr OTP question prompt list I posted on tumblr.Chapters are based on the individual asks I received.Story title is the Cure song. Because you know Baz likes angsty 80's music.





	1. Something's Gone Wrong Again

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for this chapter:  
> "Which one tries to make food for the other but burns it all by accident and which one tells them that it’s okay and makes them both cookies?"
> 
> Since this is Simon and Baz it’s going to have to be scones rather than cookies, isn’t it?

 

**Baz**

The smell hits me as I walk up the stairs to the flat. For a moment, just a fraction of a moment, I think of Simon and I’m running.

I inhale deeply as I run and the truth slams into me. It’s not the burning green scent that is still so familiar to me.

It’s not Simon’s magic. It never will be Simon’s magic again.

By the time I get to the flat I’ve schooled my face. The odor is quite a bit stronger up here.

I’ve got my own key now so I let myself in.

Bunce left to visit her American boyfriend this morning. For two weeks we have the place to ourselves. I’d be giddy if it wasn’t for the awful stench emanating from the kitchen.

Simon’s by the sink, windows flung open, a haze in the air from whatever disaster he’s created since Bunce departed mere hours ago.

“Seriously, Snow. Bunce isn’t even out of the country yet and you manage to practically burn the place down. She’ll likely have my hide for not minding you better.” I slip my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his shoulder.

My words still come out sharp sometimes but Simon knows I don’t intend them that way. Especially when my physical touch shows what I really mean.

He sighs and I peer into the ruined saucepan that is still gently smoking in the sink in front of him. Simon’s head drops forward. “That was supposed to be for you.”

I lean over his shoulder. Six eggs, their shells burst and charred, sit forlornly in the pan.

“I know you like hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. I thought maybe, with Penny gone, you’d be staying over, yeah? I wanted to surprise you with eggs all ready for your breakfast tomorrow.”

I don’t deserve Snow. Really, I don’t. I hold him a little tighter as he keeps talking.

“I set them to boil and thought I put the timer on. Must have forgotten to do it. Then I remembered I wanted to launder my sheets so I went and did that. Then Penny was texting me and I totally forgot about the eggs until I heard this right loud popping sound. I suppose they just exploded when the water boiled away.”

Simon pokes at the shattered eggs with a wooden spoon. They are stuck to the bottom of the saucepan in a blackened morass, cracked shells and exploded egg white peeking through the char.

The sulfuric smell is making my eyes water. Burying my nose in Simon’s curls I let the scent of his shampoo and soap overtake the foul stench momentarily. Brushing my lips to his ear I whisper “Thank you, Simon.”

He turns his head. “I’ve made of mess of it, as usual, Baz.”

I hate it when he thinks like that. I hate it when he talks about himself like that.

I drop my lips to his neck and feather kisses along the trail of moles that leads down to his collarbone. I can feel a shiver run through Simon at the sensation.

I give him one last squeeze and then reluctantly pull my wand out. I hate using magic frivolously around Simon but the smell is ghastly and the sooner I get this cleaned up the sooner he can stop fretting about it. “ ** _A breath of fresh air_** ,” I whisper.

His head drops back onto my shoulder. “Thanks, Baz.”

“All right then. Let’s clean this up.” I move to stand next to him and raise my wand in preparation. “ ** _Clean as a whistle_** ” should get rid of the crusted mess.

“ ** _Clean as a whistle_** ” is not one of my favored spells but it is remarkably good for cleaning up muck like this. I’m too fastidious to use it on its own—the pan will still need a good washing up after. Whistles are remarkably unclean.

Simon stops my hand midair, eyebrows draw together in a frown. “No, Baz. I’ll clean it up.” He shrugs. “Not like it’s the first time I’ve done something like this.”

I nod and step back, giving him space so he can reach the rubbish bin.

Simon scrapes the egg detritus into the bin and I tie off the bag, heading to the outdoor bin to dump it off.

He tries so hard, Simon does. Those years in the boys homes didn’t give him much practical knowledge. Not the kind he’d get with a real family.

And his concentration is still shit.

It’s better. Better than it was a year ago. But it’s still too easy for him to lose focus.

Simon’s at the sink when I get back, ferociously scrubbing the pan. Seeing he is occupied I start rummaging in the pantry. I’m fairly sure all the ingredients I need are here. I should know—I’ve made sure to have them on hand for just such days.

It takes Simon a few moments to notice my activity. “What’re you doing, Baz?”

I just shake my head and smile as I work the can opener.

“Baz?”

He drops the pan in the sink, wipes his hands clean and comes to stand next to me.

“You don’t have to do that, you sentimental git,” he says. “I’m the one who fucked up the eggs, not you.”

“I like sour cherry scones for breakfast almost as much as you do, Snow.”

I don’t really. No one could possibly love scones as much as Simon does. It’s literally impossible. Not that I would turn them away if they were offered but I’m not about to write a sonnet in praise of them.

“You’re just going to have to suffer through sharing them with me as penance, Snow.”

Simon grins and a wave of warmth washes over me.

I’m making scones for Simon Snow. It’s pathetic and sentimental and I don’t really give a damn.

I’d do anything to make him smile like he is right now. Anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from the Buzzcocks song Something's Gone Wrong Again


	2. Morning Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter prompt:  
> "Who walks around the house half-naked and who yells at them to put on some clothes?" and  "Which one constantly wears the other’s clothes?" 
> 
> This came together better as a combined answer for those two particular prompts! (in the UK ‘pants’ refers mainly to underpants and that is the meaning intended here.)

 

 

**Simon**

 

Baz is reading the paper when I walk into the kitchen. I just finished up in the shower but I could smell the eggs and bacon he was cooking from down the hall. Penny’s visiting her family for the weekend so we have the place to ourselves for the first time since we’ve all moved to London.

I grab a plate, spoon some eggs on it and then snag a few slices of bacon.

“Really, Snow?”

I shuffle over to sit at the table.

“What?”

Baz waves a hand in my direction. “You can’t be walking around the kitchen in just your pants. It’s unsanitary.”

Baz has a thing about germs. You’d think someone who’s likely immortal and never gets sick would let loose a little bit and live in the moment, let some things slide.

Not Baz. He’s even worse than Penny.

“I’m sanitary. Just took a shower.” It comes out a bit garbled as I’ve just taken a bite of bacon.

Baz rolls his eyes. “You’re not sanitary, Snow. You’re relatively clean, which is an improvement on your natural state, but you can’t be walking around in here in just your pants. It’s not done.”

Baz is a bit compulsive about a variety of things. More than a bit. About quite a lot of things actually.

But I don’t really think that’s the only reason he’s griping at me at this moment though.

He hasn’t fed yet today so he’s pale and wan in the morning light. But he’s got that look—the one I always assumed was plotting, but now I know better.

I used to think he was readying himself to attack me. I wasn’t that far off, really. He wasn’t thinking about attacking me in a dangerous sense.

More in a snogging sense.

Baz’s eyes keep coming back to my bare chest then flicking away. Then coming back again.

I love it.

I wish I knew what he was thinking.

 

**Baz**

I think Snow is going to drive me mad. As if he isn’t gorgeous enough when he’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and chavvy track bottoms. Now he’s got to entice me with the utterly striking sight of him roaming around the flat practically starkers.

My heart is pounding in my chest.

Dating Simon Snow has not been the erotic gropefest of my fantasies. And that’s fine. I far prefer what we have to any of my fantasies. Well, most of them anyway.

But I’ve recently started spending the occasional night here. Simon and I have still been a little self-conscious about certain things. Taking our clothes off in front of each other still being one of them.

I’ve got some spare clothes here at his flat. Pajamas as well, for the random times I spend the night.

Snow usually sleeps in a t-shirt and loose flannel bottoms.

I really should get him some pajamas.

I catch glimpses of the broad expanse of his chest sometimes. When he changes his shirt. I trace the rippling muscles of his back with my eyes when he heads for the shower, his wings pulled in and taut.

But this? This is a grand display of Simon’s physicality and it’s frightfully distracting.

“Would you at least go put some trousers on?” I’m going to straddle him in his chair, run my hands across his chest and snog him insensible at the breakfast table if he doesn’t get some clothes on.

Snow gives me an infuriatingly slow smile. He shovels the last bit of egg in his mouth and grins. It’s disgusting but I can’t look away.

Snow gets up to put his dishes in the sink and then moves towards me. He runs his hand up my arm to my neck, his fingers radiating heat in their wake.

“I’ll stop distracting you from your newspaper, yeah?”

I don’t quite recall when Snow started smirking but he’s swiftly becoming a damn expert at it. There’s a spark in his eyes right now that makes my breath hitch.

He heads down the hall and I let my breath out with a huff. I cooked so it’s his turn to wash up but Chomsky knows I need the distraction, so I end up doing the dishes.

I’m leaning up against the counter, sipping the last of my coffee when he returns.

 

**Simon**

I love seeing Baz flustered. I used to chafe at how cool and collected he was, imperious and impassive. Nothing I did ever broke through that.

Obviously, I wasn’t doing the right things. If I’d known all I had to do was take my shirt off to render him incoherent I’d have done it ages ago.

Actually, I probably wouldn’t have. But it’s nice to know what it does to him when I do it now.

I’m riffling through the pile of clean laundry on my desk, looking for a t-shirt. (I’m shit at putting my clean clothes away.) (I can find them just as easily in the pile as I can in my drawer, no matter what Penny and Baz say.)

I catch sight of Baz’s shirt, discarded onto my desk chair. (Neatly folded, of course.) (Posh tosser.)

Oh, this will be even better.

I pull Baz’s shirt on and grab my jeans. Baz likes it when I wear jeans.

The feeling is mutual.

 

**Baz**

Snow walks back into the kitchen, leans against the doorframe and grins at me.

He’s got my shirt on. The bloody wanker has my black t-shirt on. It’s snug in all the right places.

Snow’s shoulders are broader than mine. The shirt stretches taut across his chest and hugs his biceps. It’s obscenely attractive.

“That’s … that’s my shirt.” I’m tripping over my words. Crowley, I am undone by the sight of Snow in my shirt.

He knows it too, the utter plonker, by the way his smile widens.

“Thought you wanted me to cover up?”

Cheeky bastard.

“Not in my shirt, you nightmare. You’ll stretch it out.” I don’t care. I really don’t care. He’s filling it out in ways I’ve never imagined and the wanker looks even more delectable in my shirt than he did practically starkers.

He steals my clothes on a regular basis. My jumpers. My old football jerseys. He says it’s because they’re comfortable or he likes the smell.

But I know that’s not it. He knows how much I like seeing him in my clothes, how much it turns me on.

Snow shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to figure out how to get me out of it, yeah?”

I suppose I will. I can’t think of a more pleasant task.

Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Depeche Mode song True Faith


	3. Pictures of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Which one does the posing while the other one draws?  
> this one goes out to @vkelleyart who inspired me to do a bit more than a ficlet for this one!

 

**Simon**

I thought I knew a fair amount about Baz when we were at Watford. When he was my roommate and arch-nemesis. When I used to stalk him, as Penny says. (I wasn’t _stalking_ him. I was keeping tabs on him, that’s all.)

I’ve learned so much more about him since then, since I’ve become his terrible boyfriend. Mostly that everything I thought I knew wasn’t really true.

But there’s still a lot that I don’t know.

Namely what’s in that notebook of his.

Baz has been carrying a notebook around since our first year at Watford. I don’t think it’s the same one. I can’t be sure. Maybe he gets a new one every year and they just all look alike.

He always kept it in his schoolbag so I never managed to get a look at it.

I tried.

He had it with him everywhere. Class. The library. Our room.

He’d always slam it shut if anyone came near.

I’d catch him staring at me sometimes then furiously jotting something down in it. I was convinced it was all part of his plotting back then.

But I know he’s not plotting anymore. Which is why I can’t understand why he still carries it around with him.

He still scribbles in it, mostly when he thinks I’m occupied doing something else. He used to do that at school—write in it furiously while I was studying or reading in our room. Then he’d glare at me if I so much as looked at him.

Now I just catch him staring at me. And when I notice he drops his gaze down to the notepad and starts jotting things down again.

It’s driving me mental.

Penny says I need to let it go. Since I know he’s not plotting, what does it matter?

It matters because it’s _Baz_.

It's not like Penny to not be more curious. It’s disturbing, frankly. She’s off her game, I’d say.

My therapist thinks it’s a journal. (Yes, I’ve talked to my therapist about it.) (No, I’m not obsessed with it.)

My therapist thinks Baz likely started keeping a journal years ago—to deal with his mum and her loss—and he just keeps up with it because of all the other shit he’s gone through. (He won’t see a therapist.) (I asked him to consider it and he said no.)

Maybe it’s his way of coping, is what she said. She’d suggested I keep a journal too, when I started Skyping with her. Don’t see the point in it myself. I’m shit with words. Doubt it would help to write them down and Merlin knows I’d probably lose the damn thing five minutes after I got it. So, I haven’t bothered with journaling.

Baz is scribbling in it right now.

Penny’s shut herself up in her room to study. Baz and I are on opposite sides of the sofa, feet tangled up in the middle. I’m reading for class and he’s at it with the notebook again. I keep peeking at him over the top of my book.

I’ve caught him staring at me a few times already but he just flushes, puts his head down and goes back to the blasted notebook.

I really want to get a look at it.

 

 

**Baz**

I can feel him watching me. Simon’s not Simon if he’s not obsessing over something.

Mainly me, which I’m not going to complain about. I’m perfectly content being the object of his attention. Now and forever.

He’s absolutely awful at being subtle about it though. At this particular moment he is obsessing over my sketchpad. Again. 

Snow’s been fixated on it for years.

It’s not the same one, of course. Snow likely doesn’t know that. I’m sure he suspected some nefarious reason I carried it with me, back when we were at Watford. Likely thought I was writing down all the possible ways I’d kill him, the twat.

It’s actually far more innocuous than that, albeit horrifically embarrassing.

I’ve always like to draw. When I was very little it was ungainly stick figures with disturbingly large heads and utterly frightful renditions of the hare from the Watford nursery room mural. Stick figure representations of my family and me. (Complete with the trademark white streak in Fiona’s hair.)

Typical childish art.

But after. . . after it all happened I didn’t want to draw anymore. I didn’t want to draw us, without mother.

For the longest time I just stopped.

Going to school at Watford was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. Harder even than draining my first rat, abhorrent and disgusting as that was.

It was so hard to be there without my mother. She embodied Watford for me. It made me furious to see someone else in her office, hear her title being used by another, see our rooms taken over by him. I hated it.

I missed home. I missed my father. I missed Fiona.

But most of all I missed my mother.

It was getting harder to remember what her face looked like—not the face in the official Watford portrait or the photos scattered around the house or squirreled away in Fiona’s room. Her _real_ face. All the different expressions. How she looked when she laughed. How she looked when she looked at me.

I didn’t want to lose that.

Over the Christmas holiday first year I had Fiona buy me a sketchpad and pencils and I started to draw again.

It was complete shit at first, of course. But I got better. It took the sketchpad with me to Watford and I drew whenever I could.

And I kept getting better.

By that summer I was actually decent. I started copying old photos of Mother, sketched Father and Daphne, even did some of Mordelia. (She was a terribly ugly baby. Ask Fiona.)

By the start of fifth year I was actually quite good at it. I did a sketch of Father and Daphne over the summer that Daphne actually framed and put up in his office. (My step-mother is a kind woman but she does not have refined artistic sensibilities.) (My sketch was not worthy of being displayed amidst the artifacts he has there.)

It was relaxing to draw, to watch the images come to life on the pages of my sketchpad. It made feel closer to my mother, to be able to bring her face back on the pages of my book.

I bought a new one for fifth year. I was determined to branch out a bit, try my hand at landscapes perhaps.

There were a few half-hearted attempts—the White Chapel at dusk, a view of the drawbridge, the main gates of Watford.

But my heart wasn’t in it. I’d found a new subject to focus on and the landscapes couldn’t hold my interest any more.

No one could hold my interest more than Simon Snow. I sketched him incessantly.

He was all I sketched.

Snow’s profile as he sat across the aisle from me in Elocution. The back of Snow’s head in Greek. Snow’s face as he slept in our room.

I carried the sketchpad everywhere. I didn’t dare leave it in our room—even then I knew Snow snooped. I kept it spelled shut for that very reason—it only opened for me.

I would look through the pages, that summer after fifth year. Every time I missed Snow, every time I thought of his ordinary blue eyes, or the way his curls fell over his forehead. I looked at it constantly.

The only time I stopped sketching him much was eighth year when I finally had Snow’s attention in a non-threatening way.

Not to say I stopped completely but between the bloody Numpty nightmare and our investigation into my mother’s murder I didn’t have much time or opportunity to do it.

Different story second term. I had to do it from memory then, on those lonely nights when I’d stare at Snow’s empty bed and imagine him in it.

It’s a joy to draw him now. I get to see the softer side of Simon and there are times my fingers just itch to capture a certain pose or expression down on paper.

I know the curves of his face intimately, the planes of the muscles on his chest, the way his curls fall just so, the trajectory of every mole on his skin, the constellations that trace their way across his body, the soft tenderness in his eyes when he looks at me now.

I’m going to need a new sketchpad soon.

 

 

**Simon**

He’s been at it for almost a half an hour now. He must think I’m still dozing.

I actually had been asleep on the sofa. I was knackered when I came home. Penny’s down at Watford for Priya’s birthday and the flat was empty so I just flopped down onto the sofa and took a nap.

I didn’t even hear Baz come in. I felt the brush of his lips on my forehead and his whisper of “Don’t get up. I’ll wake you for dinner,” and I’d let myself drift off again.

But I’ve been awake for a bit now and I’m peeking at him through my half-closed eyes.

He’s scribbling in that damn book again. Baz is curled up in the armchair across the room from me, facing in my direction, the notepad propped up on his knees.

He’s unguarded for once, thinking I’m asleep. There’s an intensity to his gaze but it’s so tender I want to just get up and go to him.

Something’s different this time, maybe because he thinks I’m asleep. He stares at me then drops his gaze down to the paper, eyes intermittently flicking up to me then down so rapidly again. The hand clutching the pencil never stops its motion.

It’s odd that he writes in pencil. I don’t think I’ve ever noted it before but now that I think back it’s true—he never uses his ostentatious fountain pen or the selection of posh pens he always has on his desk.

It’s always pencil. Odd.

Eventually I get tired of pretending to sleep. I’m ravenous. I yawn loudly, startling Baz.

He instantly tucks the book away in his bag and we go about our evening—dinner, a movie, bed.

My lucky break comes the next morning. Baz is showering and I wander into the living room, switching on the telly to watch some Premier League while I wait for him.

And that’s when I spot it. Corner of it sticking up out of his bookbag.

I check my watch. Baz is only about ten minutes into his shower routine. I should have a solid ten minutes to nick the book, take a quick look at it and pop it back in his bag before he’s done. (He still takes forever in the bathroom.) (Slightly less time when he sleeps over because he doesn’t have all his posh toiletries stocked here.) (Yet.)

I drop down to the floor next to his bag and gently slide the book out. It’s a bit bigger than a standard notebook.

I can still hear the shower running so I’m good. Even after the water stops I’ll still have time because Baz will have to fuss with his hair for a good five minutes. At least he doesn’t slick it back anymore. He knows I like it better loose.

I open the book and my breath stills.

It’s not a notebook at all. It’s a sketchpad.

A sketchpad full of drawings of me.

I turn the pages carefully, my heart beating rapidly in my chest, my fingers shaking.

They’re all sketches of me—me reading a book, me peering at my laptop, my head thrown back in laughter, me sleeping on the sofa. All me.

And they’re good. Not meaning that I look good but the drawings themselves are incredible. Even the rough sketches—just a few penciled lines—look like me.

Some are so detailed it’s like looking at a black and white photograph. I had no idea Baz could draw, although it’s obvious he’s as skilled at that as he is at everything else, the wanker.

I had no idea this was what he was doing all these years.

I look at my face, on the paper in front of me, every mole, every freckle detailed so accurately it’s like looking in a mirror.

It’s me but somehow it’s not me. I don’t look this good in real life. The face I see in the mirror is wider, the nose more snub, the eyes smaller, more ordinary, the moles stark and unattractive.

He’s filled every page with me, with a me that looks softer, attractive even, striking in the black and white compositions. It’s another tangible manifestation of how much I mean to Baz. Something more that I didn’t know about him.

I close the book, hands resting on it reverently for a moment and that’s when I hear it.

Or rather don’t hear it. The water’s off and I look up to see Baz’s stunned face as he comes into the room, his eyes darting anxiously between the book in my hands and my face.

 

 

**Baz**

 

Shit.

 _Shit_.

I never should have stopped spelling the bloody thing shut. I got out of the habit that last term at Watford. I kept the book in our room and there was no reason to spell it shut anymore.

Or so I thought.

I’m such a fucking idiot. And now Simon’s seen it and realized what a disturbed fuck I am, creeping on him in his sleep, drawing him without his permission, obsessively filling sketchbooks with his face, his body.

Any blood left in me has flooded my face. I’m staring at him and for once I can’t think of a single thing to say. I’m trying to school my features. Crowley, this is mortifying.

“Simon.” I manage to choke out his name but I’ve got nothing to follow it. I’m bereft of words at the moment.

Simon’s eyes are wide and he looks horrified.

_Fuck._

I can’t believe I’ve betrayed his trust like this and he looks like he agrees with me.

 

 

**Simon**

Baz briefly flushes and then goes deathly pale. He said my name but now he’s just standing there staring at me again.

I’d say he’s gaping but Baz never gapes.

No, he’s definitely gaping. I suppose that’s better than being mad at me but I think that’s coming next. He’s still too shocked, I think.

Fuck.

I’ve betrayed his trust. I snooped into his things. Exactly what he always accused me of but now I’ve actually gone and done it.

Fuck.

The book slides from my lap as I stand up.

“Baz. Baz. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Just my fucking curiosity. I had no right, no right at all.”

I’m babbling.

 

 

**Baz**

Snow’s babbling and all I really comprehend is that he’s apologizing and I can’t understand why. He’s shuffling across the room to me, his eyes still wide and blue and sad and . . .

And he’s not mad. I blink at him and realize I’m gaping at him. I shut my mouth and try once more to school my features.

“Simon. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see that.” I clear my throat. I’m shit at this. That’s not what I should be apologizing for, him seeing it. Simon’s standing right in front of me now. “I should never have taken the liberty without asking your permission.”

“Baz.”

“It’s unforgiveable and I completely understand how you feel I’ve betrayed your trust.”

“Baz.”

“I regret . . .”

“Baz!” Simon’s voice surges over mine and his index finger brushes my lips, stilling my voice. “Baz shut up one bloody minute, will you?” He moves in closer, his face inches from mine. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I should never have looked through your things. I should never have looked in your sketchpad, not without asking you for permission first. I’m sorry. I did just what you always thought I’d do.”

Snow’s starting to bluster. I know the signs. I reach out to cup his face in my hands and close the distance between us until I can press my forehead to his.

“Stop blustering, Snow. Yes, you snooped, you twat. Yes, I told you not to do that. Yes, you could have just asked me about the book.”

“Would you have told me?”

Likely not, if I’m going to be honest with myself.

“Probably not.” I may as well admit it.

“Why?” Snow genuinely looks puzzled.

“Why?” I can’t help myself from repeating his question. My powers of speech are still not quite up to par. “I’ve kept it to myself all this time. I suppose I’m embarrassed about it.”

Now Snow is frowning.“Embarrassed to have drawings of me?”

Bollocks. Not what I meant. How the fuck did I get myself in this situation?

“No, Simon. Not embarrassed to have drawings of you. Ashamed that I invaded your privacy without permission. Mortified for you to see my scribbles.”

“Scribbles? Baz, these are amazing.” Snow grimaces and starts again. “Not amazing as in ‘wow, I look amazing’ because obviously I don’t, but amazing as in these could be black and white photos of me, Baz, they’re so detailed.” His frown intensifies. “You’re so good at this. And I had no idea. Of course, you’re good at everything, you bloody arse. It’s so fucking unfair.” Snow blusters on a bit more before I interrupt.

“You’re not angry then?”

“Why would I be angry?”

“That I filled a bloody sketchbook with illicit drawing of you!”

“They look pretty tame to me, Baz. They’re mostly head shots and I’ve got clothes on for the ones that aren’t.”

“Illicit, you clod, not indecent.”  Crowley, I love this boy. “Illicit meaning without your permission.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Thought you meant something else.” He’s got a little smirk now. It’s devastatingly gorgeous.

Snow winds his arms around me. Our foreheads are still pressed together and I can feel the heat radiating from him, he’s so close.

“Baz. You’re brilliant at it. You’ve made me look . . . made me look good. You’ve made me see what I look like through your eyes. I can’t be angry about that.”

“And what do you look like through my eyes, Simon?”

He drops his voice to a whisper. “Loved, Baz. Loved.” His lips brush over mine and I bury my hands in his curls.

“I love you, Simon.”

“I love you, Baz.”

His lips slide over mine again but this time he deepens the kiss. It’s a few moments before I come up for air.

“Now about the snooping, Snow.”

Simon tilts his head back and grins up at me. “About that. Sorry and all. Maybe I can make it up to you?”

“How’s that?”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll give you permission to do some sketches.”

 “Deal, Snow. No more illicit drawings.”

 His smile grows wider and there is a glint in Snow’s eye now. “Definitely no illicit ones. But I might be persuaded to pose for some . . . ah . . . indecent ones.”

 I think I may have forgotten how to breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Cure song Pictures of You.


	4. Only Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OTP question: Who sleeps in the other’s lap?

 

**Simon**

 

We started off on opposite ends of the sofa. I need to finish this book tonight and Baz has been answering emails about some group project he’s doing. He’s not happy with the people he was assigned on this one and I’m sure the emails he is currently sending out are appropriately cutting and malevolent.

I glance at him over the top of my book. He’s glowering at his phone.

I’ve got about ten pages left to read. I shift around on the sofa until I end up with my head in his lap.

“What are you doing, Snow?”

“You called me Simon before.” I grin up at him. We play this game often. He knows how much I love it when he calls me Simon and I know how habitual it is for him to call me Snow.

Baz rolls his eyes. “What are you doing, _Simon_? You can’t be done with the reading yet.” He peers down at my book.

“I’m not. Just wasn’t comfortable. Thought it might be cozier over here.”

His face softens at my words and he puts his phone down. “Did you?” Baz runs his fingers through my curls.

“Definitely cozier.”

One of his hands drops to my chest and I rest my hands on it, holding the book at eye level. Baz’s other hand keeps carding through my hair. It’s heavenly.

It’s hard to focus on the book.

I don’t care.I’ll finish it in the morning.

 

  

**Baz**

This group project is a nightmare. As expected, I’m the one doing all the work on this. And revising anything these utter clods submit. It’s due tomorrow and it’s almost midnight now.

I had to get out of the flat. Fiona’s home for a few days and she’s an utter distraction when I’m trying to get work done.

Not that Simon isn’t a distraction but he’s polite enough not to taunt me.

I’m sitting up in his bed, furiously typing on my laptop. Simon is on his stomach, reading a book for class.

He reads more now that he’s at uni. It’s good for him. He never read much in those horrible boys’ homes. It’s gotten easier as he does it more and I think he’s actually starting to find the fun in it. I’ve got a list of books I think he’ll like that I’m saving for this summer.

I’ve got this blasted document mostly salvaged. Just a final read-through and I should be done. Simon’s shifting on the bed and now he’s dropped his head in between me and the laptop.

Blue eyes gaze up at me. Simon looks ready to fall asleep.

“You doing alright, Baz?”

“Almost done, love. Almost done.”

“Hmm.”

“You can go to sleep if you want, Simon. Turn the light off. I can work with just the laptop, as long as it doesn’t disturb you.”

Simon makes another undecipherable sound and shifts so he’s lying on his side, head still resting on my thigh. “I’m alright.”

I can see the curve of his neck and that one particular mole that I am exceedingly fond of. I balance the laptop with one hand and rest the other on Simon’s bronze curls.

I love running my fingers through his hair. I imagined it so many times, back at Watford. What it would feel like, how the curls would sink and then spring up under my touch, the sensation of the short-shorn hair at the back of his head. The reality is far better than I ever imagined.

I know when Simon falls asleep. I’d know that breathing anywhere. I’ve let it lull me to sleep for years.

I’m done for the night. I’ve done what I can to salvage this disaster.

I’ve better things to occupy me.

 

 

**Simon**

Baz hasn’t had a nightmare in a while but I should have expected them to start up again. It’s August after all.

He couldn’t go back to sleep after this last one. He didn’t want to talk about it, just got up and started pacing around the room.

I don’t know how he sleeps in this bed in the first place. The eyes still unnerve me. It’s a bit better than it was but it’s still creepy. Daphne knows how I feel about the gargoyles so she’s had some drapes made that mostly cover them. There’s one or two that still somehow manage to peek through but I can manage to sleep here now, if Baz is with me.

He’s still pacing.

I’m not staying with the gargoyles if he’s not with me. I get up and make my way to the sofa—the one I slept on the first time I came here 

“Come here, Baz.”

He pauses in his pacing.

“You don’t have to stay up, Simon. Get some sleep.”

“Not a chance. Not with those creepy eyes looking at me.”  
  
Baz rolls his eyes in response. “They’re barely visible.”

“I can still see them. And they can still see me.”

This gets a huffed laugh out of him.

“So, you’re going to sleep on the sofa again?” He’s a bit closer now.

“I have it on very good authority that it’s quite comfortable. Even for two people.”

This gets an actual laugh from Baz. “I’d say reviews are mixed on that.”

“You were just too keyed up to sleep. Relishing the proximity of my presence.”

Baz is standing next to me now and his hand runs through my hair. “Something like that, love.”

“Come on then.”

He sits on the sofa gingerly. “We haven’t got a pillow.”

“I’m the pillow. Lay down, Baz.”

I finally get him situated, his head in my lap, grey eyes gazing up at me. I could stay like this forever, looking into Baz’s eyes. They’re green and blue and grey and mesmerizing.

“You can’t be comfortable.” Baz is still fussing, the annoying prat.

“I’m fine. You know me—I can sleep practically anywhere.”

“Except the gargoyle bed.”

“Except the gargoyle bed. Unless there’s a gallant vampire with me. My very own gampire.”

“I’m more of a glampire, Snow.” I love it when Baz smirks. He thinks it’s mysterious. I think it’s endearing. “I’ve got far better taste in clothes than the average vampire.”

“You most certainly do. And you’re a welcome distraction from the gargoyles.”

“Distraction. Is that what you’re calling it now?” Baz’s smirk has progressed to a full-on grin.

I love that he can do that with me now, that he can let himself smile and even show his fangs and not be bothered by it.

My face heats up. “Hush. I’m trying to get you to relax.”

“I’m plenty relaxed.”

It’s my turn to laugh. He’s not. I can see the tension running through him, the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, even the way his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs crossed over each other at the ankles. He’s practically thrumming with agitation.

I run my index finger over his widow’s peak and then thread my fingers through his hair.

I don’t get to do this often enough. Baz has a near monopoly on it—he loves to run his fingers through my hair and have me fall asleep in his lap. Bringing to life his fantasies from fifth year is his standard response when I comment on it.

But he’s letting me do it now and I’m taking full advantage of the opportunity. I rest my free hand on his forearm and slowly feel the muscles ease and soften. His hand shifts so he can hold mine and our fingers interlace.

My other hand is still carding through his hair. It’s thick and soft and I could do this all night, if he let me.

He’s letting me.

It takes a while but his jaw unclenches and I can feel him slowly settle into a more relaxed position, his head heavier on my legs now.

I don’t even know what I’m nattering on about. I’m just babbling at him but I think he likes it. He’s got that soft smile now, the one only I get to see. So, I keep talking.

The morning light is starting to filter in the windows by the time his eyelids finally flutter closed and stay that way. His breathing eases and slows to the rhythm that is so familiar to me. I drop my head back to rest it on the sofa. I’ll just close my eyes for a bit, now that Baz is asleep.

 Just for a bit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the Nick Cave song Slowly Goes the Night


	5. Cat People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Who comes home to see that the other one bought a pet?

 

 

**Baz**

There should be a prohibition on group projects in graduate school.

Granted my associates now are marginally more tolerable than the ones at Imperial were but _still_. I work far better on my own.

I’m exhausted and sick of people and I just want to order a curry and watch movies with Simon.

I check my watch. He should be home by now. He’s taken to volunteering at an animal shelter once every fortnight. He claims it’s something to do with his ongoing research into therapy animals but I think he just likes being around all those abandoned pets. They’re starved for a little love and affection and Simon has boundless reserves of both.

Simon’s on the floor when I step into the flat. At first all I can see are his legs sticking out beyond the edge of the sofa.

“Hello, love.” I shrug out of my coat and drop my bookbag on the floor.

“Hey, Baz. Rough day?”

I drop down onto the sofa, fully prepared to whinge about my classmates, but then I see it.

I sit up, tense and guarded, glaring at the intruder.

“What is that?”

Simon laughs. “Exactly what it looks like, Baz. It’s a cat.” He props his head up on his arms and keeps petting the scrawny ginger feline that is curled up against his chest. Simon looks unfairly adorable but I’m can’t let that distract me.

“Yes, Snow, I can see that it’s a cat. What’s it doing in our flat?”

“Fred needed a foster home for a bit. Thought we could put him up here for a time.” Simon is sitting up now, the ginger cat cradled in his arms. I can hear the purring from here.

“Fred? You can’t seriously expect me to believe someone named their cat Fred.”

Simon nods. “Fred.”

“Why on earth couldn’t he stay at the shelter?” The cat is nuzzling Simon’s hand. Crowley. I’m practically melting at the sight but I’m not going to admit that to Simon.

I’d wanted a cat. A long time ago. A few years after … everything. I never told anyone, other than Fiona. It was some time ago and I’m sure she’s forgotten. I’d nearly forgotten.

Simon is scratching the cat behind the ears and the purring intensifies. “His brother George got adopted a few days ago and Fred’s gotten a bit mopey. Thought a change of scenery might do him a bit of good.”

“Fred and George. You’re obviously making this up.”

“I’m not. They were both gingers, from the same home. Kind of makes sense when you think about it.”

He gets up off the floor, cat in his arms, and comes to sit next to me. “Budge up.”

“You could have just as easily sat on the other end of the sofa, Snow.” I grudgingly scoot over so Simon and the cat can sit.

And then Simon deposits the cat in my lap.

“Fred meet Baz. He’s not usually this grumpy. Ah, I’m lying to you, mate. He’s grumpy a lot of the time but he’ll grow on you.” Simon’s blue eyes are sparkling and his smirk is downright wicked.

And he’s literally discussing me with the cat.

I’m so fucked.

“If he’s going to stay here I most certainly am not calling him Fred.” I’ve now conceded that the damn thing can stay. _Fuck_.

“You can pet him, you know.” Simon reaches over to scratch the cat’s head again and ‘Fred’ curls up in my lap and resumes purring.

He’s quite the friendly fellow. I wonder why anyone would have willingly given him up. He’s a bit scrawny but his coloring is gorgeous. He’s warm and soft and I’ll be damned if I haven’t unintentionally started petting him. His fur is thick and my fingers sink into it.

Simon leans into me and I’m warmer than I’ve been all day, sandwiched between him and the cat.

“We can call him something else if you’d like, Baz. Something we like.”

I’m not going to let myself get attached by coming up with a name. But I simply cannot call him Fred.

“I am not calling him Scone, Snow.”

That elicits a snort from Simon and he shrugs.

“I thought we could call him Butterscotch, maybe. He’s the right color for that.”

Simon would think to name him after a food. Of course he would.

“You forgot Curry. He’s the right color for that favorite food of yours, too.” I keep petting the blasted thing and it keeps purring. “I am not having a cat named after a food, Snow. We are most certainly not calling him Scone or Butterscotch or Apricot or any other edible. That’s almost as bad as Fred.”

Simon laughs. I could listen to that sound all day.

“Well, he is a ginger, Baz. What else would we call him?”

“Crowley, Snow.”

Simon laughs again. “We are definitely not calling him _Crowley_. That’s definitely worse. It’ll be endlessly confusing for him and me—won’t know if you’re calling for him or just complaining.”

I let myself fall back into the sofa cushions, the cat shifting to accommodate the change in my position. “I didn’t suggest calling him Crowley. That was an expletive directed at you about Scone.”

“I’m not the one who suggested calling him Scone. That was you, Baz.”

I roll my eyes. “I most certainly did not suggest we call him Scone,” but Simon’s dissolved into a fit of giggles and I know he’s teasing me and I close my eyes, lean my head back and just revel in the sound.

Simon bumps my shoulder. “We could call him Jareth. Isn’t that the name of that Bowie character you like so much?”

I open my eyes and turn my head towards him. “Blasphemy, Snow. He looks nothing like Jareth. Jareth’s thin and pale and blonde.”

“The other bloke then. You know. The red haired one. Ziggy.”

“Ziggy Stardust.”

Simon’s musical preferences were unfortunately influenced at a tender age by the care homes and then by Agatha. He’s disgustingly fond of peppy pop music. It’s appalling.

Living with me, now that we actually have access to electronics, has certainly broadened his musical horizons. I’m inordinately pleased he remembered Jareth at all.

“Yeah, Ziggy Stardust.” Simon repeats my words and then bends to go nose to nose with the cat. “How’d you like that? Like to be called Ziggy, would you?”

The cat formerly known as Fred seems to have no objections.

“Ziggy it is then,” Simon says triumphantly as he rests his head on my shoulder, one finger reaching out to stroke the cat’s fur. “Welcome to the family, Ziggy.”

And my heart thumps in my chest.

Here we are then. Me, Simon and a cat we’ve somehow managed to adopt over the course of the last five minutes.

We obviously aren’t just fostering Ziggy. He’s here for good. There is no way I’m letting him go back to the shelter. Because he’s part of what we are now. Family.

I’m certainly not going to admit to Simon that we’re keeping him. Not yet.

I pick the cat up and bury my face in his fur. “Welcome home, Ziggy,” I whisper.

I’m weak and pathetic, what can I say?

It’s worth the humiliation to see the brilliant smile on Simon’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the David Bowie song Cat People.


	6. Icy-cold Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Which one gives the other his jacket?

  
**Simon** :

  
Baz isn’t a fan of crowds. Hates them, actually. But this is our first winter in London and I’ve never really seen a good fireworks display.

  
I love fireworks. They would sometimes take us out to see them on Bonfire Night when I was in the homes. Not every home did that, mind you, just some of the less miserable ones. I’m sure they weren’t anything special, compared to the ones in London or other posh places, but they were still beautiful to me.

  
I was nattering on to Penny about it a few weeks ago. Baz didn’t say anything at the time but tonight he showed up and told me we were going out.

  
We ended up at the Southwark display which was fucking amazing. He’s obviously been plotting this for weeks, the twat, because you have to buy tickets in advance and they sell out fast.

  
There were food stalls and cider and hordes of people milling about and I loved every minute of it.

  
The fireworks were brilliant. I’ve not seen anything like that. It’s what I used to think magic would be like, before I knew the World of Mages existed. But the best part was being there with Baz, my hand in his, the glorious colour display above us reflecting in his eyes. We were surrounded by stars and the brilliance of the firework displays and it made me think of that night again, the night it all started between us.

  
We’ve been here for hours and I’ve only just noticed that all he’s wearing is his thin wool coat. It’s long and dark and tailored perfectly.

  
Baz looks gorgeous in it of course, the posh toff, but I know he’s freezing. His hand is cold even through his leather glove and that just makes me roll my eyes. Baz has lined gloves, he’s got mittens for Merlin’s sake, but he won’t wear them, he’s such a wanker. That’s why he’s wearing this coat too. He looks good in it and he knows it. Twat.

  
There’s a stiff wind and the temperature has dropped markedly in the last hour. I’m in my puffy coat. I look like an absolute prat in it. Baz says it makes me look like a half-melted marshmallow. He’s got a sweet tooth, so that should make me good enough to eat, yeah? Made him blush right on the spot, when I said that to him.

  
It makes me too hot most of the time but it’s soft and light and doesn’t press on my wing joints as much as my duffle coat does.

  
The whole show is over now. We’ve got a bit of a walk to the station and Baz has buried his face in his scarf. The wind is blowing directly at us and I can feel him shiver when he presses close. I pull him under a store awning.

  
“Take my coat.”

  
“What?”

  
“Take my coat, Baz. You’re freezing.”

  
“I’m not wearing that.”

  
“If you’d actually put on a proper coat you wouldn’t be freezing your knob off right now. You look bloody magnificent in it, I’m not going to say you don’t, but for Merlin’s sake you’re shivering. Your hands are like ice, even with your gloves on. Don’t even get me started on why you insist on wearing these useless gloves …”

  
“I am not a toddler, Snow. I am not wearing fucking mittens.”

  
“Put my coat on, Baz. We’ve got blocks to go still.”

  
He hasn’t fed yet, which only makes him more susceptible to the cold. I let go of his hand and start unbuttoning his coat. He knocks my hand away.

  
“Bloody hell, Snow!”

  
“You’re wearing my fucking coat home, Baz. I don’t care what you say.”

  
“I’m going to look like a fucking numpty in it. I’m not wearing that nightmare.”

  
“Numpties wear ratty wool cardigans. You should know that by now.”

  
His glare is frigid.

  
I’ve managed to get his coat unbuttoned and mine unzipped. I know I can’t fit mine over his so we’ll just have to switch.

  
It takes me a minute of wrestling with him, bloody annoying arse, but then the wind picks up and he starts shivering violently with his coat half off and he finally gives in.

  
I zip him into my coat, pull the hood over his head, fuss with his scarf for a moment, and manage to withstand him looking daggers at me.

  
“I suppose you do look a bit like a numpty after all, Baz.”

I can’t decide if his response qualifies as a growl or a snarl.

  
I shrug into his wool coat and that elicits a yelp of indignation from him. “You’re going to bugger up the shoulders, Snow.”

  
The look in his eyes is anything but outraged. His eyes are raking me over and there’s a glint of appreciation there. He makes a show of whinging about it but I know how much he loves it when I wear his clothes.

  
Clearly the sight of me in his coat is not that offensive because he’s pressed up close to me again, arm in arm, pulling me snug against his side.

  
“Better?”

  
“Adequate.” Baz pulls our entwined hands into the warmth of my puffy coat pocket. “We need to go coat shopping.”

  
“Yeah, we do. You need something that actually keeps you warm, Baz.”

He looks over at me, eyes smoldering. “Fuck that, I’m not buying one of these marshmallow coats. I’m getting you into a fucking tailored one, is what I’m doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Smiths song Stretch Out and Wait.


	7. Dreaming My Dreams with You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Who takes a selfie when the other one falls asleep on their shoulder?  
> multiple people asked for this one so there are three takes on it.  
> Thanks to BasicBathsheba for discussing Simon's Premier League preferences with me and confirming my headcanon.

 

**1.**

**Penny**

The credits roll. It was my turn to choose tonight so I finally managed to get Baz to watch _Star Trek: Into Darkness_. Thought he’d cultivated an appreciation for Chris Pine after seeing the first film. Perhaps not.

Baz is a film snob. He’s as you’d expect—all about foreign films, eclectic indie films, documentaries.  With two surprising weaknesses: _The Lord of the Rings_ and certain rom-coms.

Space fiction films, not so much. I think the only reason he liked _The Martian_ was because Matt Damon’s character was so sarcastic and Sean Bean made a Lord of the Rings reference in it.

Simon had to practically beg him to watch the original Star Wars so Baz could finally get the droid spell right for Simon’s wings. Simon simply detests **_“nothing to see here.”_**

“Up for another one, Penny?” Simon asks. I look at my watch. It’s almost midnight.

 

“Depends what you’re watching.”

Baz clicks the remote to start the next film.

Merlin and Morgana. They can’t be watching “ _Four Weddings and A Funeral”_ again. I know Baz has a bit of a thing for old Hugh Grant films. More than a bit of a thing. And of course, it’s rubbed off on Simon.

I can tolerate “ _Love, Actually_.” I do like that one. Makes me laugh, all those idiot boys desperately trying to figure girls out. The only one who actually has a clue is the little kid who plays the drums.

“No. I’ll call it a night. Have fun watching Hugh bumble his way through another relationship.”

 

**Baz**

Bunce is trying to get me interested in sci-fi films. I’m honestly surprised she likes them so much. She’s such a stickler for facts and data I don’t know how she can tolerate watching them. I grudgingly acquiesce, because it’s only fair to let her choose a film every so often, and then I entertain myself by identifying the myriad plot holes and implausible scientific occurrences.

There are many.

I was hoping she’d shove off if I put this on. She is not a Hugh Grant fan.

It’s got plot holes and flaws, like any film. But I love it.

I don’t mind Bunce. As Simon predicted I like her quite a bit.

And I’m not usually in the habit of chasing her off but I’ve had a busy week with assignments and so has Simon. I’ve barely seen him at all. I’ve been looking forward to cuddling on the sofa with him all week.

Snow manages to fall asleep twenty minutes into the movie. I’ve got my arm around him and he’s asleep on my shoulder so I suppose this counts as cuddling, even though he isn’t an active participant.

One of the many benefits to dating Simon is that I now get to watch him sleep whenever I want. He grumbles about it, if he catches me doing it, but he doesn’t really mind.

I can’t see him now and I wish I could.

I carefully pull my phone out of my pocket and put it in selfie mode.

He’s a nightmare, as usual. Hair sticking up, a few stray curls falling on his forehead. Mouth half open (Not drooling on me) (Yet).  Face bathed in the light of the television. That delectable line of moles trailing down his neck.

He looks fucking gorgeous.

I snap a photo. I should be mortified at the sappy smile on my face but I can’t help it. I can’t help looking like that when I’m with him. A part of me still can’t believe my luck.

I press a kiss into his bronze curls, inhaling the scent of him, to remind myself that this is real.

 

**2.**

**Baz**

If Simon Snow needed further proof that I would do anything for him today should certainly confirm it.

I am going to a Liverpool game with him.

In Liverpool.

It’s proof that I am completely besotted with this boy. Thank Merlin they’re playing Cardiff City and not some team I actually care about.

Snow is decked out in all his Liverpool gear and avidly conversing with the fans across the aisle from us on the train.

I don’t quite understand how he became such a fervent fan. Proximity perhaps. Simon was at a boys’ home near Liverpool for a bit a few years before he came to Watford and he was at another one there the last summer he was in care.

It still enrages me that the Mage left him in care during the summers. It makes me regret not confronting him about it when I had the chance. Manipulative bastard.

He should never have done that. Shouldn’t have been allowed to do it by the Coven. There was no need to subject Simon to that.

The Mage should have taken Simon home with him.

If he even had a home. I can’t quite picture the Mage in a snug little cottage with flouncy drapes and an herb garden.

But he should have done something.

Anything would have been better than those homes. There were enough people fawning over The Mage while he was alive. He could have convinced someone to take Snow for the summer holidays. The Wellbelove’s did it every Christmas, even before Agatha and Snow were dating.

I should have brought him home with me. Before eighth year.

 

**Simon**

I’ve not been to a Liverpool match before. Been up since dawn ‘cause I’m so excited about it.

I can’t believe Baz bought us tickets. He loathes Liverpool.

Actually, I can believe it. He’s doing it for me.

Baz does that sort of thing all the time. It still surprises me. I mean, I know by now how kind he is, how he’s really soft when you get behind those walls he likes to keep up. So good surprised, I guess you’d say.

It’s the thought that goes into that gets me. I see something and say ‘oh, Baz might like that’ and maybe get it for him or maybe think about getting it for him and then manage to forget about it.

Baz isn’t like that. Baz plans elaborate outings like this for me. Weekend getaways. Unexpected dinners out. And he finds things he knows I’ll like. Gets them for me and saves them up to surprise me when I’m down or for no reason at all.

He’s such a romantic sap. I love that about him.

Something’s up with Baz right now though. I felt him tense up while I was talking to the people across the aisle. Probably thinking about something he shouldn’t be and making himself feel all guilty and responsible again.

My full attention goes to him and I bump his leg with mine.

“Hey.”

“Yes, Snow?”

Baz’s arms are crossed and his lips are in a thin line. “What’re you thinking about?”

“I am wondering how I am going to endure an entire day surrounded by Liverpool fans.”

“No, you’re not.” I bump his leg again. “What is it, Baz? You’re all closed off and grumpy. I’ve got a whole day to spend with you and if you’re cross about something just tell me.”

I slip my arm through his and rest my head on his shoulder.

It takes a minute but then he sighs and relaxes into me. That’s more like it. He shifts so he can take my hand and thread our fingers together.

“I’m all right, Snow.”

We sit in silence. I know he’ll tell me eventually. Baz likes to work things out in his head. Too much so, if you ask me.

But maybe not this time.

The miles go by out the window. Baz’s fingers loosen their hold on me and his head drops to rest on mine. I can tell he’s asleep by his breathing. It’s the most familiar thing about him, how he breathes when he sleeps.

I’m usually the one to nod off but I’m too riled up to sleep. It’s not often I catch Baz napping, at least not out in public.

I slide my phone out of my pocket, slowly, so as not to disturb Baz. I put it on selfie mode and snap a photo.

He looks beautiful, Baz does. I mean, he looks that way all the time, the bloody toff, but it’s different when he’s asleep. He’s softer, the planes of his face less defined, less angular somehow.

Makes me want to keep him safe, when he looks like this. Which is rubbish, he’s the one with all the power now. I couldn’t keep him safe from a snow devil unless I managed to kick it to pieces or punched it or something.

But I’d still try.

For Baz, I’d do anything.

 

  

3. 

 

**Simon**

Baz slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close. I lean into him.

He knows I’m knackered.

It’ll still be hours before we get back to London.

“You should sleep on the train, Simon.”

I nod and that somehow turns into me dropping my head on his shoulder. I can feel the brush of his lips in my hair. “Thank you, love. It was the perfect day.”

 

**Baz**

Simon shuffles into the train carriage and flops down on the nearest seat. His head is resting on my shoulder before the doors even close.

It’s been a long day.

He’s been plotting this expedition for a few weeks, that I know. His laptop browser has been suspiciously empty every time I’ve used it. He’s changed the passcode to unlock his phone. And Bunce has had a particularly self-satisfied look the last few days.

I hadn’t expected his surprise for me would be a day in Stratford-upon-Avon.

The sites in and around London hold no appeal for me. Not that I don’t find the British Museum absorbing or that I don’t appreciate the wealth of history here.

Being in the company of people who are just rushing through to say they’ve “seen it” is what’s disagreeable.

I’ve managed to endure it for Simon. Braved the crowds, tramped through the sites, tolerated the inane conversations with strangers that he always manages to strike up. I’ve solidly tamped down my distaste for all things touristic and taken him to as many places as he cares to see. Despite my initial misgivings seeing the sites with Simon has been utterly enjoyable. It’s so new to him and he loves it all.

I just hadn’t assumed this place would be on his list.

Simon’s not a big reader. He’s doing more now, with uni. I think he likes it well enough but he’s certainly not passionate about it. Not like me.

He knows I love Shakespeare, knows how I dissect the language, the rhythm and beat of it, the words and phrases, the characters and story arcs. He’s listened to me bang on about it with Bunce often enough.

I can’t say I wasn’t cross when he woke me up this morning at some unholy hour so we could catch the early train. But my irritability faded when I saw our destination.

He planned today for me.

Every bit of it. Anne Hathaway’s house, Hall’s Croft, the Church of the Holy Trinity. Tickets to see _Tamburlaine_ at the Swan Theatre.

“Why did you pick _Tamburlaine_?”

“Hmm? Sorry?” I think Simon was already dozing off.

“Why did you pick _Tamburlaine_?”

Simon sits up and runs a hand through his hair and blinks at me a few times before answering. His curls are in disarray and it’s glorious.

“Penny said you’d like that one. Said it’s not performed too often. I wasn’t sure you’d like it. I mean, we’ve come to see Shakespeare’s birthplace and such and we’re seeing a play by some other bloke.”

“That ‘some other bloke’ would be Christopher Marlowe, Snow. The great Elizabethan playwright. The one who influenced Shakespeare.”

Simon grins at me. “Still seemed odd to see a play by someone other than Shakespeare. I was hoping they’d have Romeo and Juliet. I’d like to see that.”

“Why would you want to see that one? You aren’t a fan of those doomed love stories.”

Simon leans in and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. He leaves his hand there, his thumb stroking my face. “Maybe I am. I managed to survive my own doomed love story. Maybe I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for those enemies to lovers plots.”

His eyes are wide and so blue and I’m going to kiss Simon Snow on a ruddy train.

Except he kisses me first. And then he drops his head on my shoulder again and leans into me.

“I’d like to see it sometime, Baz.” His fingers intertwine with mine. “I know you like it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re a romantic sap. And I want to see it because of those words.”

“What words?”

“The ones from the spell. The ones that only worked because you were in love with me. The ‘  ** _love’s light wings_** ’ bit.”

I’d be blushing now if I’d fed enough.

“All right, then.”

“All right, what?”

“That I’ll take you to see it, Simon.”

“You will?”

“Yes, I will. When it’s staged again, I’ll take you.”

“It’s in London starting in November. I’ve already got tickets. Now I’ve gone and ruined your Christmas surprise, Baz.” Simon looks up at me with a huge grin.

“You are abysmal at keeping secrets, Simon.” But I lean in and kiss his forehead.

“Kept today under wraps, didn’t I?”

“That you did, love. And it was perfect.”

“See. I’m working on it. On being your not-so-terrible boyfriend.”

I don’t think I’ll ever tire of Simon using the word 'boyfriend' in regards to me.

The train rattles on and Simon’s contributions to the conversation slowly peter out. His head is heavy on my shoulder now, his grip on my hand loose.

I know when he’s asleep. The pattern of his breathing is as familiar to me as my heartbeat.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, careful not to jostle Simon. I open the camera and look at our faces on the screen before I snap the photo. Simon is fast asleep, his head on my shoulder, mouth slightly open, curls tumbling over his forehead. He’s stunning.

I’ve got a smile on my face that’s slowly becoming more familiar to me. It’s the one that’s been showing up in the pictures I take with Simon. It’s soft and tender and there’s not a hint of sneer in it.

I look happy.

Because I am.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from The Cranberries song Dreaming My Dreams


	8. Drunk Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter prompt: Which one of your OTP overdoes it on the alcohol and which one makes the other stop drinking?

 

**1.**

**Baz**

I believe Simon is now on a first-name basis with every denizen of this pub.

I’m also fairly certain every one of them has offered to buy him a drink. I’m absolutely positive he has taken far too many of them up on that offer.

Endless grin, disheveled hair, flushed face. Simon Snow is completely sozzled.

“Baz!”

“Yes, Snow?”

“Baz!”

“I’m right here, Snow.”

Snow wobbles onto the barstool next to me and sets his most recent refill of ale on the table so heavily that some of it sloshes out of the glass and onto the tabletop. He blinks at it regretfully, takes a long pull of the remaining ale and then turns to regard me again.

“Baz!”

Crowley, here we go again.

“Baz, Liverpool won!”

“Yes, Snow. So you’ve mentioned.”

He frowns and leans towards to me, gently swaying. “You called me Simon before.” He leans even closer to me, his scrunched nose almost touching mine.

Snow’s understanding of personal space is precarious even when he’s sober. It’s basically nonexistent when he’s drunk. I don’t mind that one bit. He’s now draped over me, chin resting on my shoulder, lips brushing my ear.

He raises his voice even louder than before. “Baz!”

Snow also loses all sense of volume control when he drinks. He’s literally a breath away from me but still feels the need to bellow.

“Baz!”

“Yes, Simon.”

“They’re _all_ Liverpool fans. Every one of them.” He leans back to wave his glass genially at the other tables, managing to spill more of his drink as he does so.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. Less in the glass means less in Simon. He’s going to have a dreadful hangover tomorrow if I don’t cut him off soon.

He’s still chattering. Snow becomes far more talkative when he’s drinking, his words flowing freely, if somewhat repetitively.

“Baz!”

My point exactly.

“Baz, how’d you find this place? How’d you find a pub full of Liverpool fans, a pub showing the game, in fucking Chicago? I didn’t even know there’d be Liverpool fans here.”

Snow goes on about this remarkable example of globalization for quite some time.

We’ve been in town for a few days, visiting Bunce and her boyfriend. They had some family affair today, so Simon and I had some time to ourselves.

I had considered spending that time in the warm, luxurious privacy of our hotel room but Simon was up with the sun, as usual, and ready to explore more. As if Bunce hadn’t dragged us all over this freezing, windblown city already.

The wind here is ghastly. It almost made me regret not buying that ridiculous puffy coat Simon insisted I needed for this trip. Almost.

I couldn’t face walking along that frigid lakeshore today. It’s snowing. In April. It’s appalling. I truly don’t know how Bunce tolerates it.

I had done some investigating ahead of time. I know how Simon is about Liverpool this late in the season.

Simon would call it plotting but I prefer to call it research. It was easy enough to discover which pub was a favorite among expat Liverpool fans.  This one opened at seven this morning to televise the match live. We’ve been here since before nine.

It’s not even noon and Simon is completely inebriated. He’s still talking but I’ve lost the gist of this very one-sided conversation. He’s crossed his arms on the table, one elbow in the puddle of beer he spilled earlier, and his head is resting on his arms. Eyes half-closed, face still flushed, errant curls spilling onto his forehead. 

He takes my breath away.

I push the curls off his face, my fingers lingering to stroke through his hair. Simon closes his eyes and smiles.

“Baz.” Thank magic, he’s at the point of mumbling now rather than shouting.

“Yes, Simon.”

“Like it when you do that.”

“When I do what, love?”

“Mess with my hair.”

I keep my fingers running through his curls. I never want to stop.

“Baz.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. This was ace.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

Simon’s eyes stay closed.

I pull my phone from my pocket and tap on the app for a car service to take us back to the hotel. Simon’s in no state to navigate public transportation and it’s too fucking cold for me to even consider it.

Looks like we’ll be getting that afternoon in the hotel room after all. Maybe Simon will have slept it off by the time we meet Bunce and Micah for dinner.

I run my fingers through his hair one more time.

“Come on, love. Time to go.”

Simon blinks up at me and sways as he gets to his feet. I reach for his hand but he just leans into me instead, arms wrapping around my waist. I slide an arm around him to steady him.

He’s asleep on my shoulder by the time the car pulls away from the curb.

**2.**

 

**Simon**

 

I’ve wiped down the kitchen counters. Washed all the dishes that were piled up in the sink. Folded and put away my clean laundry. I suppose I could sweep too but I don’t feel like it.

It might seem like I’m making a go of cleaning the flat but I’m moping. Actively moping.

Penny huffs at me from the sofa. “Just text him, Simon.”

“He said he wanted to be alone today. I’m respecting that, Penny.”

She rolls her eyes at me and goes back to her book.

I’ve wanted to text Baz since I woke up.

It’s August 12th.

Before this year I hadn’t really understood the significance of this date for Baz. I mean, I knew his mum had been killed and all, but I didn’t know the date or the details of it all.

Or who had orchestrated it.

Baz was home with his family every previous August and I was always languishing in some miserable care home, desperately waiting to be released to go to Watford. We were never in the same place.

But this year we’re both in London. He didn’t go home for it—he’d have been alone if he had anyway—the Grimms are visiting Daphne’s parents in the south of France for a few weeks. Baz was invited to accompany them—I was too—but he hadn’t wanted to be with Daphne’s family for this.

Understandably.

I’m not sure what I was expecting for today. I guess I wasn’t expecting he wouldn’t want to be with me either.

But I can understand that. It’s the first anniversary of her death where he actually knows what happened, knows she was murdered.

And knows who gave the order to do it.

Which is probably why he doesn’t want me around. I may not be the Mage’s Heir anymore but he was still my mentor for all those years. (actually, it seems I am the Mage’s heir, according to his lawyers) (They’re still trying to sort that out) (I’m not sure what it all means.)

Baz doesn’t sleep over at my place every night. With Fiona gone we’ve actually been spending some nights at his place. He’s got a nicer television.

Fiona’s an absolute terror when she’s home. She bangs on the bedroom wall and yells even if we’re just watching a movie in bed. Thinks she’s funny, she does. Makes me practically jump out of my skin, even when I’m not snogging Baz. That’s why we avoid his place most of the time. He’s been sleeping over here more often than not, now in the summer, since we don’t have classes.

But he didn’t sleep over last night.

He wanted to stay at home today, be on his own, is what he’d said. I thought he’d stay over and leave this morning but he’d gotten quiet when I mentioned it last night.

“You don’t have to stay,” I’d said. I didn’t want to press him on it. “It’s alright it you don’t want to.”

Baz had frowned at me. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Simon. I’d just rather be on my own tomorrow and I’ll likely not be good company. I should just go tonight, so I’m not a frightful grump at you in the morning.”

“You’re always a grump in the morning.” That had gotten him to indignantly deny it, but with a hint of a smile on his face. Baz did end up leaving soon after. Said he’d text me when he was ready to talk. I’d promised myself not to pester him.

It wasn’t even half-past ten and I already wanted to pester him.

Penny finally groans and tosses her book aside about an hour later. “Simon, I can’t take one more minute of you brooding. It’s one day. Surely you can survive one day without seeing Baz?”

I shrug.

I get a huff and an eye-roll this time. “Come on. Let’s go. We’re going out.” Penny shoves my shoulder and I shuffle out the door after her.

Penny knows me so well. She takes me to Borough Market, which is at least some distraction. Until I’m done eating, that is.

“Will you stop checking your phone? It will vibrate if he texts you, Simon. You know this.” Penny bats my hand and I shove my phone in my pocket before I drop it.

We wander down to Southwark Cathedral and then end up near the Bridge.

“He just wants some time alone today, Simon. It makes sense.” Penny pushes her glasses up and frowns at me. “I’m sure he’ll call or text you later tonight.”

“I know. I just hate the thought of him being alone. It’s the first year he knows what really happened… who really planned it …”

She doesn’t let me finish. “Simon. You can’t take on the guilt for that. The Mage made his own decisions and is the only one responsible for his actions.” Her finger pokes my chest. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

We’re almost to the station when I feel my phone vibrate. I yank it out of my pocket eagerly.

It isn’t Baz.

It’s Fiona, of all people.

 **FIONA** : _Are you with Baz?_

 **ME** : _No. Why?_

**FIONA:** _Where the fuck is he?_

**ME:** _At his place. Why are you texting me?_

**FIONA:** _Why the fuck aren’t you with him? Don’t you know what today is?_

**ME:** _He said he wanted to be alone._

**FIONA:** _AND YOU JUST LET HIM BE ALONE? Merlin and Morgana, Snow, I can’t believe I actually gave you credit for not being as thick as you look._

**ME:** _Why are you texting me?_

**FIONA:** _Because Baz isn’t answering my calls or texts, you fucking nightmare. I thought for sure you’d be with him, so I thought I’d text you to tell him to FUCKING ANSWER ME._

**ME** _: Oh._

**FIONA:** _How’d he get you to shove off for the day? Aren’t you usually glued to his hip?_

I frown at my phone. Fiona is an acquired taste. I haven’t quite acquired it yet. Baz says most people don’t ever manage to.

**ME:** _He asked me to._

**FIONA:** _Jesus Christ, Snow, you are an absolute pillock._

Fiona likes to swear like a normal. More so when she’s really pissed off.

 **FIONA** : _Do you have a key to his place?_

I do actually but I’m not sure I want to tell her that. It’s her place too.

**FIONA:** _Don’t you fucking stop answering, Snow. Are you going to answer my question? DO YOU HAVE A BLOODY KEY OR NOT?_

**ME:** _Yes._

**FIONA:** _Yes, you have a key? This isn’t fucking twenty questions, Snow._

**ME:** _Yes, I have a key **.**_

**FIONA:** _Get your arse over there and see what’s going on. I’ve been texting and calling him for the last hour and he’s not answering, the bloody wanker. And for the love of Merlin have him text me when you get over there._

**ME** _: All right. I’ll head over there now._

**FIONA:** _If one of you doesn’t text me in the next hour, Snow, I will literally set you on fire when I see you next._

**ME:** _Ok, ok._

Lucky for me I’ve got my key fob in my pocket. “Penny, I’ve got to go to Baz’s.”

“Was that him then?” Penny looks puzzled. “You usually get this soft, sappy look when you text Baz. You looked more like you were going to throw up this time.”

“No, it was Fiona. She’s been texting him but he’s not answering. She’s blustering but I can tell she’s worried. I need to get over there.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No, better not. Not sure what kind of mood he’ll be in when I get there. Better if I go alone. I’ll text if I need anything.”

“All right, Simon. Text me if you need backup.”

Baz is in a mood alright. A drunk mood. I’ve only seen him that way one other time. Fifth year in the Catacombs.

I’d burst into the flat, not sure what I would find.

What I found was Baz, bottle in hand, leaning against the living room sofa. His hair is tangled, falling into his face. He looks even paler than usual. The wanker must not have fed last night. No wonder he’s completely pissed.

Baz is a lightweight under normal circumstances—even one glass of red wine gets him completely legless if he hasn’t fed. I can’t imagine what this bottle of single malt has reduced him to.

Well I can. He’s a morose, incoherent mess. I’ve never heard him slur his words like this, not even back in fifth year.

“Baz. It’s me, Baz. Look at me. There you go.” I pull his face up and sweep his hair back. His pupils are huge, his grey eyes flat and lifeless.

“Shnow.” My name is garbled, Baz’s lips barely moving. The bottle in his hand waves erratically.

“Baz, give me the bottle now, alright?” I have to pry his fingers off the neck, managing to spill a little as I wrestle it away from him. At least it’s not empty. I’ve no idea how full it was when he started but there’s less than a third left now. I move to put it on the table across the room.

Baz makes a reaching motion when I move away. I’m back at his side immediately. I put my hands on his shoulders and lean close. “I’m going to get you a glass of water, ok? Don’t move, just stay here ‘til I get back, yeah?”

I fill a glass with water from the tap. I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Fuck. It’s probably Fiona again. She can wait a minute.

I drop down on the floor next to Baz and he leans into me heavily. “Here you go, let’s have a little bit of water now.” I hold the glass to his lips and manage to get Baz to take a few sips.

I’m thoroughly regretting not letting Penny come with me. She’d be able to hit him with a spell or two to bring him round. I’m no help to him at all.

I coax the water in him, little by little. He slumps against me, head on my shoulder. I wrap an arm around him. “I’ve got you, love.”

His head unexpectedly comes up at my words and bangs into my chin. He shakes his head and I rub my chin. That stung.

“You’ve never called me that.” His voice is clearer. His focus is off but there’s an intensity to his gaze that wasn’t there a few moments ago. “You’ve never called me ‘love’ before.”

He’s right. I haven’t. That’s what he calls me. I adore it when he does. It makes me feel cherished and special and _his_.

I’m not as comfortable with endearments. Afraid I’ll sound like a right plonker, I guess. They just don’t come naturally to me, usually. But it did this time, just slipped right out. Didn’t even notice I’d said it.

I lean in and kiss Baz’s forehead. He smells like a distillery. I smooth his hair back and trace his cheekbone with my thumb. “Well there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there, love?”

Baz smiles and closes his eyes, his head dropping back on my shoulder. “I like it,” he mumbles. “Like it when you say that, Simon.”

“You should have called me, Baz. I hate the thought that you were sitting here all alone. I would have come.”

My phone is buzzing again and I continue to ignore it. Fiona is going to light me on fire but I don’t care. He’s ok and that’s all that matters. I’ll get to her later.

“Didn’t want to get all maudlin on you.”

“You know that wouldn’t matter to me.”

I can feel Baz’s breath on my neck. He’s tilted his head back, half on my shoulder and half resting against the sofa cushions. I tighten my arm around him. “You can be any way you want around me, Baz.”

“She’s not coming back.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s stark and true but not something he hasn’t known for awhile now. So I don’t say anything.

“She came through the Veil to find me. She couldn’t find me, Simon. She couldn’t find me because I wasn’t there. She came through for me—she didn’t go looking for my father or Fiona. Me. And I wasn’t there.”

I feel a chill wash over me that’s almost as frigid as it was the night Natasha Pitch appeared in our room. Of course he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there because the fucking Mage had him kidnapped.

All she found was me. The Mage’s Heir. Wasn’t that fucked up, when you stop to think about it?

“She’s not coming back, Simon.” I still don’t know what to say to him.

“She’s got no reason to, now. We figured it out. She’s been avenged. There’s no reason to come back next time.”

Oh shit. _Fuck_.  
  
I hadn’t thought of that. No wonder he’s a fucking mess. He probably hadn’t thought about that either.

We solved her murder. We avenged her death. She’s got no reason to linger anymore, no reason to come back through the Veil next time.

  _Fuck_.

I’ve had some seriously conflicted emotions about the Mage, this past year. Part of me hates him for leaving me in the homes all those times, for lying to me about being the Chosen One, despises him for using me and manipulating me like that. For almost bringing the magickal world to the brink of war. For letting think I had to fight Baz to end it.

Part of me is grateful he found me and brought me to Watford, to the World of Mages. Without the Mage I wouldn’t have Penny, or Baz or Agatha, or any of the things that made my life better the last eight years.

My therapist says it’s normal to feel conflicted.

But I’m not conflicted now. I can be grateful that he found me and brought me to Watford and I can wholeheartedly hate him forever for what he’s done to Baz. And I do. I hate him for murdering Baz’s mum, hate him for causing Baz to be turned. I can’t forgive him for any of that.

But it truly enrages me that he took Baz’s one chance to see his mother again away from him. Because that’s what it was—his one chance. Natasha Pitch has no reason to come back next time the Veil lifts. And my heart breaks for Baz right now.

He’s realized that too.

I get him another glass of water and eventually manage to shuffle him down the hall and into bed. I tuck him under the duvet and watch him fall asleep.

I finally extract my phone and see the torrent of enraged texts from Fiona.

I tap out a response to her and then text Penny that I’ll be spending the night here. And then I turn my phone off and watch Baz until I fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song I Don't Need by the Cranberries


	9. The Sweetest Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combined prompts for this chapter: What sorts of things would they give each other “just because” and Which one likes to surprise the other with a lot of small random gifts?

******1.**

 

**Baz**

One of the particulars I noticed about Snow, that first night in our room, after the Crucible had encumbered me with him (burdened me with his mole-dotted skin, ordinary blue eyes, bronze dusted hair) was how few possessions he had brought to Watford with him.

Worn trainers on his feet. A scant number of ratty t-shirts. A few threadbare trackie bottoms. That fucking red ball.

That was it. Not another bloody thing.

It’s not like I brought much with me. Uniforms, text books, notepads, writing utensils—all were provided to us.

I’d packed some clothes. Pajamas, of course. A few favorite books. A tiny, contraband iPod Fiona had lent me the summer before (discreetly hidden in the depths of my closet, thanks to the Mage’s ludicrous ban on electronics.)

Over the years more items traveled to Watford with me. More books, naturally. Some family photographs (Mordelia was an exceptionally ugly baby) (She’s marginally better now) (it would be devilish hard to look any _worse_.)

By fifth year there were posters, meticulously confined to my side of the room. Some abysmal drawing Mordelia had made for me that I kept spelled to the wall. A whole shelf of books.

  
And Fiona’s old lava lamp, for the sheer ridiculousness of it (it was mesmerizing) (and retro) (and I liked to spell it different colours.)

Snow never added anything. Other than larger sizes of the items he’d brought with him initially. And a winter coat. A few nice jumpers, after he started spending Christmases with the Wellbeloves.

No personal effects. No books. No photographs.

At least he got rid of that fucking ball.

It took me years to understand. To realize he went into care every summer, wasn’t with the Mage as I thought. To recognize that he couldn’t afford or even really risk owning anything of value.

It was much the same when I helped him move into the flat with Bunce earlier this year (I did help, no matter what Snow says) (I supervised) (Someone had to.)

Most of their furnishings were tatty cast offs from Bunce’s family home.  Some mystical wall art that she had found in Camden. A mismatched selection of mugs and tableware. Typical uni apartment.

But Snow’s bedroom was so sparse. Just like his side of the room had been at Watford. A bed. A desk. A lamp on a rickety nightstand. A dresser with virtually empty drawers.

  
Blank walls.

It’s not like that now, no thanks to Snow.

It’s not like he doesn’t have money. Bunce finally convinced him to do something with that sack of leprechaun gold. I took him to a Normal bank, helped him open an account and the bank helpfully converted the gold to legal tender.

It’s a tidy sum. Enough for him to indulge himself a bit.

He doesn’t.

So, I do.

It started before he moved to London. Those weekends second term, when I would visit him at the Bunces.

When he was all long silences and thousand-yard stares.

I held his hand and tried to distract him. Dinner dates. Film nights. Clothes shopping.

I bloody adore taking Simon clothes shopping. He has no idea how fucking attractive he is. Buying him fitted shirts and tailored jeans is as much a gift to myself as it is to him.

I can’t help it.

I think of him when he’s not with me.

I’ll walk by a shop and see a shirt that reminds me of the color of his eyes.

Strolling through a bookshop I’ll find a title I actually think he might like.

A peculiar trinket will catch my eye at a street market and I know he’ll be captivated by it.

I buy them all for him.

Even my old lava lamp has taken up residence on his dresser.

Bunce says Simon’s room looks like a tatty shop stall from Spitalfields Market. It looks nothing of the sort. She’s prone to slanderous hyperbole.

What it looks like is home.

* * *

**2.**

 

**Simon**

I’m not sure what I love best about living in London. Rooming with Penny. Getting to see Baz every day (and most nights) (almost like when we were roommates) (but better.) Going to uni. Exploring the city. All the food.

The variety of food is astonishing. There’s posh restaurants and so many curry take-out shops. Neighbourhood pubs. All the street markets.

I don’t know if I like Borough Market or Camden Market best. Or Maltby Street. Or Brockley.

I love them all.

I’m only taking two classes per term this year. My therapist thought that would be plenty, with all that I’m trying to sort through right now. Uni’s been very understanding and accommodating about it all. My therapist sent a letter and spoke with the dean.

Professor Bunce mentioned Metropolitan first, when I was still living with them. Said she knew they had some pathway that wasn’t full-time to start.

But I think Baz’s father had something to do with it too. Baz had dragged me along, to their family lodge near Oxford, for a weekend visit soon after he’d left Watford.

I hadn’t really seen the Grimms much since I’d run away from them, the night the Humdrum had attacked Baz. The night I’d extinguished all the magic for miles around their home.

Well, I’d seen Mr. Grimm, at the Coven meetings investigating the death of the Mage. He’d not said much to me, just gripped my shoulder a few times and said “Simon” and nodded at me.

It wasn’t much. But it helped. Helped to know he didn’t hate me for the hole in Hampshire. For driving them all out of their home. For being with his son.

It was just a quiet encouragement, something I’d never expected from him.

But when Baz took me to Oxford with him, to tell his father he would rather be staked than go to uni there, to tell his father he was moving to London with me, I was anxious.

I was going bloody mental.

So of course, being me, I started babbling on at dinner about moving to London, living with Penny, our fourth floor flat, what my therapist had said about uni. Just nattering on, face turning red, hands shaking but unable to stop the fumbling words coming out of my mouth.

Baz, the prat, just looked at me with one eyebrow raised and a half-smile. Bloody twat. He could have cut in and stopped me any time.

Mr. Grimm looked a little glassy-eyed and Daphne had a fixed smile on her face. I finally took a large swig from my water glass and stopped talking.

“That’s … that’s very interesting to hear, Simon.” Mr. Grimm’s face was impassive. “Have you thought about where you might like to study?”

“London’s got so many options,” Daphne added helpfully.

“Uh, Professor Bunce mentioned Metropolitan. Said it’s got some flexibility, with part-time programs and such.” My face was flaming. Baz’s hand slipped into mine and I could breathe a little easier.

“I’m familiar with it. Sebastian is there, Baz. You remember him?”

And then they’d moved the conversation on and I’d slumped back in my chair and taken another helping of pudding.

But a few weeks after I applied to Metropolitan I received a letter from a Mr. Sebastian Palmer-Lloyd, informing me that I was approved for a part-time pathway and providing information on a scholarship he felt I was qualified for, if I filled out the appropriate paperwork.

I think Mr. Grimm arranged it all.

I haven’t dared ask him or attempted to thank him directly.

Baz said not to worry about it, when I asked him what to do. Said his father wouldn’t want me to mention it. He had an odd expression, when I told him about the letter. A distant, fond look.

I don’t think it was for me, though. I think he was thinking of his father.

So that’s how I ended up at London Metropolitan. With only two classes per term. I got that scholarship. I’ve got tutors and a foundation year advisor who stays in touch with my therapist and is surprisingly helpful to me.

Which means I’ve got a fair bit more free time than Baz and Penny.

Which is why I’m wandering through the market on this blustery Thursday. I’ve had a kebab and an ice cream so far. There’s a stand with baked goods that look wonderfully appetizing. Might take some home for later.

I’m strolling along, eyes darting from the food stalls to the art displays when I see the table across the way. The wind’s picked up and my ears are getting a bit cold. It’s not even the end of October. It’s shouldn’t be this blustery yet.

The table is covered with woolen hats and mittens and scarves. Bright colors, soft jewel tones, dark greys and browns. They’re soft and thick and look so very warm.

I don’t wear gloves much. Or hats. Get too hot still, even without the magic. I’m like a personal space heater, Baz says.

Baz gets cold. He’ll whinge about it tonight, how the temperature’s dropped today. But he still doesn’t do a bloody thing about it. Still wears his posh tailored wool coats, his thin leather gloves. He wears scarves but only because he thinks they make him look mysterious and aristocratic. He looks bloody gorgeous in them but I’ll not tell him that.

I will. I have. I can’t help myself.

Baz won’t wear a hat. He wore the boater at Watford because it was required (he loathed it) but once we didn’t have to wear them anymore he wouldn’t wear any type at all. Not even in the frigid depths of winter. Thinks they make his hair look bad, the tosser.

He’ll wear gloves but the ones he has now are useless. Thin leather ones, no good at keeping his fingers warm at all.  I should know. I hold his hand constantly.

I thought he had lined ones, when we were at Watford. I’m sure of it. I remember seeing him putting them on before he’d go to his violin practice. Cashmere lined, I’m sure.

They must be at his place. I’ll have to see if I can dig them up when I’m over there next. It’s only going to get colder.

I run my finger over a pair of mittens. They’re so many—simple knit ones, ones with a flap you can flip over to free up your fingers, ones made from cozy old jumpers and lined with fleece.

Mittens would surely keep Baz’s hands warm.

I find a simple charcoal grey pair with a thick, warm lining. They’re trim and neat, subdued and sedate.

He’ll still find something to complain about but at least his hands will be warm while he does.

* * *

 

 **3** _. Bonus Simon slightly blood focused ficlet_

**Simon**

 

Taking only two classes means I’ve a lot more free time than Baz and Penny.

I don’t have class today but I’m up early, as always.

Baz spent the night at his place. Had a paper due today so he didn’t make it over. Probably for the best. He doesn’t have class ‘til noon today. We usually just stay in bed all morning when he sleeps over on Wednesday nights.

But I’ve got plans for the day and an early start is what I need.

London is the best place I’ve lived, other than Watford. There’s so much to do, to see, to explore.

It’s not great for hunting though. At least not for the kind of hunting Baz does. The non-human hunting.

London’s probably more like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the regular vampire types.

But Baz isn’t a regular vampire. He argues with me about it but he’s more human than vampire. Always has been. All that rubbish about being half-dead. It’s all rot.

He’s basically a human with a taste for blood.

But it’s a bit sparse here in the city for him. There’re rats, yeah, but not as concentrated in one place, like they were at Watford.

Places where they do congregate aren’t places I want Baz going to alone. I know he’s got super strength and super speed and whatnot but I still don’t fancy him lurking in Hackney in the middle of the night.

London’s not even in the top twenty rat-infested areas of Britain (yes, I looked it up) (Research.) There are some right big ones in Hackney but it doesn’t even make the list.

There’s a fair amount of birds but they’re a bit dodgy to catch and Baz isn’t too fond of them. There’s deer in Richmond and Greenwich but it’s not that easy to drop a deer in the middle of London, even at night. There’re people around all the time.

You can find badgers in some of the parks but Baz says they’re an endangered species so they’re off limits. That’s taking it a bit far if you ask me. What’s one badger, here and there?

Baz draws the line at bats too. I tease him about that. He’s just too fastidious. Drives me mental. He’s got to feed somehow.

Odd thing is he’s not needing to feed near as often. He used to feed almost every night, he would, at Watford. But since last term he can go two days or sometimes even three and not be worse for the wear. I’m not complaining, mind you, but it’s odd.

Maybe the whole Numpty incident reset his vampiric metabolism? I don’t know. I’m no expert on vampires.

Probably more of an expert than most. On one particular vampire.

So anyway, feedings have been a bit chancy for Baz now that he’s in the city. He’s made do with rats and pigeons, the occasional deer if he can manage it.

He lets me go with him, mostly, now. At least when he hunts for deer. I’m good at lookout, making sure no one’s about, distracting people if I need. Gives him a few moments undisturbed it does.

Even with his altered metabolism it’s still not ideal. He needs a more consistent supply. He’s got a heavy class load. He can’t be out all night trying to feed.

Tried dried blood. I found it on Amazon, of all places. It’s mainly for making blood pudding. Thought it would work all right.

Baz hates it. Made him gag, it did. Says it smells funny and has a chemical aftertaste. Probably all the preservatives.  
  
Used it in emergencies a few times, like when it snowed for three days straight in February.

I found some in an Asian market. In the freezer section. I swear to Merlin I had no idea you could get frozen blood in a grocery store.

I’d actually found the place on some Reddit forum on blood pudding. I keep having to clear my browser history. Don’t know what my classmates would think if they saw the searches for blood products on my laptop. Think I’m mental or part of some cult, I’m sure.

The frozen blood wasn’t much good either. Something about the freezing process and coagulation and whatnot. Baz and Penny went on and on about it. I couldn’t follow it all. Just crossed frozen blood off the list of options.

This one Asian market in Catford had fresh blood. Thank you, Reddit. I got a tub of it and brought it home on the tube. Lid must have loosened up at some point. Ended up with the front of my shirt all soaked in it. Looked a nightmare I did.

Walked into the flat and Penny took one look at me and started shrieking about Goblins.

I haven’t seen Baz look that frightened since … since the whole Weeping Tower incident.

He looked terrified. Face shades paler than usual, nostrils flaring, pupils blown, eyes wide and fixed on the bloodstain on my shirt. His fangs popped (I can tell) (His cheeks puff up.)

And then he was right there, running his hands over me, searching for a wound or injury or some such. Got blood all over his hands, patting me down like that.

It took some time for everyone to settle. I hadn’t realized what I looked like, big blood stain in the middle of my chest and splatters of blood on my hands where I’d snapped the lid back on.

Thought I’d been attacked, is what they thought. The Goblins still think I’m fair game so I suppose Penny and Baz had a point.

I put the tub of blood in the refrigerator and went to take a shower. I think Baz burned my shirt. I don’t know why they didn’t **_“out, out damn spot”_** it. That should get blood out.

I kind of liked that shirt. But I don’t think Baz or Penny were quite rational at that moment. It’s their biggest fear for me, played out, now that I don’t have magic anymore.

Took me half the night to get Baz settled down enough to try the blood.

Better than the dried blood for certain. Better than the frozen too. Not sure how I was going to manage transporting it back and forth from Catford without another disaster like this one.

Got a big thermos is what I did. Went back a week later but they didn’t have any in stock. Finally got some a few weeks later and transported it home without incident. Thermos did the trick.

Their supply isn’t that reliable. I’m on their list to call when they have it now. The owner thinks I’m some private chef who specializes in blood sausage. The language barrier helps keep them from asking too many questions.

So that’s what I’m up to today. I’ve got a list of butcher shops I called Monday that said they get fresh blood every so often. I’m going round to see if they look reputable and clean. Won’t be getting dodgy supplies for Baz.

I’m hoping if I find enough suppliers I put them in a rotation of sorts. You know something like _Catford first Friday of the month, Ealing every other Thursday, Camden on alternate Tuesdays_. Something like that. So I’ve always got a supply on hand for Baz.

Keep him from having to prowl around as much at night, especially once it gets cold again. Keeps him out of the dodgier neighborhoods too.

It’s almost six by the time I get home. I’ve got a list and dates and I’m going to put it on a spreadsheet to keep it all organized.

I’ve got two thermoses in my backpack so that’s all right then. I tuck them into the small refrigerator under my desk and head to the shower.

It’s almost eight by the time Baz texts me that he’s on his way over. I’ve got the spreadsheet all done and put the pick-up reminders in my phone.

He’s going to fuss about it all. Baz doesn’t deny it, like he used to, but he still hates talking about it. So I won’t say much. Just tell him I’ve found a steady supply and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know the details.

That I went all over London today to find reputable distributors. That half of London thinks I’m a blood sausage specialist. That I set up a schedule for myself of when to get the blood. That the frig under my desk isn’t just there because I get hungry all the time.

Baz does so much for me.

I just want to do something for him.

 

 

**Baz**

My heart is pounding in my chest and I can't catch my breath. Simon is staring at me and I can't speak.

I've completely lost the ability to form coherent sentences and I can sense the anxiety rising in him at my continued silence.

This boy. This absolutely fucking gorgeous nightmare of a boy. 

He's been fussing with different ways for me to feed for weeks now but I thought he'd finally given it a rest.

But no. I should know by now that Simon Snow perseveres and digs his heels in when faced with a conundrum.

I'm the conundrum.

I know the enormity of what he's done for me. He's minimizing it all, not telling me what I know is true. 

That he's traipsed the length of London, personally scrutinizing these butcher shops. That despite his utter loathing of Excel he's put the effort in to make spread sheets-- _spread sheets_ , for Merlin's sake--to keep track of dates and times and locations. That he's volunteered himself to pick up the blood, so no one becomes suspicious of me.

Simon’s done all this for me and I'm speechless. 

He’s said he loves me. I know he thinks he means it. I want to believe that Simon Snow loves me as desperately, as passionately, as absolutely as I love him. 

But I've never really let myself believe it. Not until now. 

And it makes me love him even more than I already did, if that's even possible.

I can feel the tears coming on so I grab Simon's shoulders and pull him towards me, burying my face in his neck, arms tightening around him.

"I love you, Simon Snow."  
  
He relaxes in my arms and pulls me closer.

"I love you, Baz."

And I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, just how much he truly does.

* * *

 

Chapter title from the song The Sweetest Gift by Sade 

 

 


	10. Dragon On My Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 27: Which one owns a pet that the other is absolutely terrified of?

 

 

**Simon**

 

I like going to the Grimm’s hunting lodge. It’s smaller and less intimidating than Pitch Manor. There’s also a comforting lack of wraiths.

And gargoyles.

It’s still grand and impressive and staggeringly old but far less menacing. I find the sword and shield displays in the drawing room of great interest.

“Not again, Snow.” Baz raises his eyebrow when I start eyeing them.

Swords make sense to me. I know what to do with one.

They’re simple and direct.

Like me, I suppose.

Baz says the magic is thick around the lodge, thicker even than at Pitch Manor.

My magic’s gone but sometimes, when we’re there, I think I can almost feel an echo of it around me. A vibration, an elusive thread just beyond my grasp.

It’s faint. But it’s familiar.

It’s comforting to feel it again, even if it’s not mine.

The Grimm’s have a few other homes. Pitch Manor, Daphne’s family home in the South of France, the mansion near Galloway. The lodge is my favorite though.

Except for the one major drawback.

Baz didn’t really have any pets growing up. Neither did I, living in care. We’ve got our cat Ziggy now. But I put him in care when we leave town. I daren’t bring him here. He’s not an outside cat and the lodge is a bit too grand for a cat traipsing about. I’d hate to have him bolt and lose him, here in the countryside. Baz would be devastated.

Not that I wouldn’t be. Devastated, I mean. I would. But I think Baz would take it harder. So Ziggy stays back in London.

The Grimm’s have horses here. And a few dogs that belong to the caretaker.

And one small, red dragon that seems to have become quite attached to Baz.

He found it years ago, one of the summers he was home from Watford. Just happened on it in the woods near the lodge. Said it was the size of a hare when he first discovered it. It’s a fair size bigger now. Right about the size of a Shetland pony.

Not as big as the one the Humdrum sent to Watford. But just as alarming. To me, at least.

Baz has no fear. I think that’s how he stayed so calm when the dragon came to school. He’d met one before. Knew it wouldn’t have attacked the school of its own volition.

Baz’ dragon lives in the woods near the Grimm’s lodge. Keeps the local deer population under control. Rabbits too. Takes down the stray fox, Baz says.

That’s how Baz found it actually. When he was out to feed. Went after the same rabbit, they did.

Baz heads out to the woods to visit every time we come here. Says it would know if he didn’t—dragons have got a keen sense of smell it seems. And Baz has a very unique scent. Damn attractive one, if you ask me.

Baz named his dragon Smaug (he'd read The Hobbit a few months before he found the dragon) (I find that utterly endearing) (The name, not the dragon.)

I’m fucking terrified of it. Baz says it’s because I’ve not got my magic anymore. I say it’s because it’s a bloody dragon and who wouldn’t be terrified.

He scoffed, the tosser.

I know I should just let him go say hello to the menace by himself but I can’t let myself do that. I know I can’t keep him safe. Not anymore. But I can’t stand the thought of letting him out of my sight when there’s a dragon on the loose. Even if it is a small, somewhat tame one. Dragons are fire and flame and Baz is _flammable_.

Just makes Baz scoff again, when I point that out. Overconfident prat. Says Smaug would never hurt him. For Merlin’s sake it would only take one exuberant puff and Baz would be ashes.

So that’s the reason I go with him. Not that I can magic him safe but so I can try to put any stray fire out before Baz combusts.

I know Mr. Grimm shares my apprehension. He doesn’t press the issue but his mouth gets tight and his eyes narrow when Baz mentions heading out to visit the dragon.

I thought it’d be a good idea to bring a water bottle with me, when we go out looking for Smaug, just in case. I do but I’ve got something better, thanks to Mr. Grimm.

Seems he found a compact, torch sized fire extinguisher on Amazon. Drew me aside the first time we visited here and stealthily passed one to me with a wordless nod in Baz’s direction.

It’s our little secret.

I know where he keeps them too so I’ve always got one in my pocket when we go into the woods.

You just never know, with dragons.

 

* * *

 

_Chapter title from the Queen song Dragon Attack_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13: Which one keeps accidentally using the other’s last name instead of their own?

 

 

**Simon**

Baz is always taking me on dates.

Dinners out, films, theatre performances, to see bands I’ve never heard of in dark, crowded clubs.

Afternoons at the British Museum.

That was actually our first date in a way, wasn’t it? Baz stealing books and me eating curry, all that time ago.

And then Baz spent months trying to distract me from my chaotic thoughts, his last term at Watford.

He’s good at knowing what to do. Planned or spontaneous. It always ends up being just what I need.

All I usually manage is take-out and movies at my flat. Or Baz’s. If Fiona’s out of town.

Baz doesn’t seem to mind those nights at home. But I want to plan a good date for him, like he does for me. A night out where he’s not the one coming up with all the ideas, making all the reservations.

I’ll start simple. Dinner and a film simple.

But it’s not so easy. Because I don’t want to take Baz somewhere familiar, someplace we always go.

I want to surprise him with a new place. A dinner out that’s unexpected.

He’s a lot better about eating out now. He actually _eats._

Baz has always been so self-conscious about his fangs. But he and Penny worked out a spell a while back to glamour them away.

So now he looks even more like a model, the insufferable twat, since he started using _“pearly whites.”_

The question is where do I take him?

I’m not particular. I’ll eat anything.

So I plod through reviews of new restaurants but I can’t get a good idea, reading some other bloke’s comments.

I’ve got Baz’s Open Table password. He never really uses the app anymore. He knows where he likes to go and just calls them directly when he wants a table.

I end up downloading the app onto my phone.

I suppose I could set up my own account but it’s so much easier to use Baz’s. He’s got his favorite restaurants already bookmarked.

I can find ones similar to those, maybe.

Don’t want Baz to know. I want to surprise him. Switching off the notifications on the app seems like the best way to manage that.

I get together a list of likely options. Now I’ve got to go try them out, see if they’re good enough for Baz.

That’s trickier to manage.

He’s here most nights, unless he has a late tutorial or study group meeting (he hates those) (says they’re a waste of his time.)

I’ve only got two classes so I’ve got time. I faff about with the list, saving only the restaurants that have a lunch service too. That way I can try them out and Baz won’t be the wiser.

I can afford it. Penny nagged at me a while back to finally convert the leprechaun gold. It’s a fair sum.

Pays for all these posh lunches, it does.

It took me aback the first time it happened. I probably should have said something right then but it was awkward. I had made the reservation under Baz’s account.

Of course they would assume I was Mr. Pitch.

I should have just gone and set up my own account then but didn’t see any point to it. I was trying restaurants. Didn’t matter what they thought my name was.

Did make me feel a little funny though, being called Mr. Pitch.

Funny in an odd way. A good odd way.

I can’t think about that right now.

I tried to dress a bit smarter, wore some of the clothes Baz bought me. Tried to keep from slouching, eating too fast and whatnot.

All the things Baz used to sneer about at Watford, when he’d watch me eat.

Didn’t really mean any of it, the wanker. Well, some of it maybe.

Says my table manners are atrocious but mesmerizing. Whatever that means.

I find a few restaurants I’m sure Baz will like. Kind of narrow down the list. Go back for a second round.

I’ve got two places that I really like and I think they’re just right for Baz. One to use for our date and one for spare.

Really most of the ones on the list are good enough. But I want this to be really special, even if it’s just dinner and a movie.

I go round one more time for lunch, the day before our date.  
  
I should have realized what might happen.

I love seeing the expression on Baz’s face when I get dressed up to go out. Really dressed up. Nice shirt and jacket, the tailored trousers. His whole face just lights up and he gets this look in his eyes. I used to think he was going to attack me, when he got so focused.

Now I can’t get enough of it. He still wants to attack me but it’s more in a snogging way.

We get to the restaurant and Baz raises an eyebrow at me. “Not your typical choice for dinner out, Snow. 

“You called me Simon, before.”

Baz tugs me closer. “Not your standard fare, Simon. What’s the occasion? I thought we were just going to see a film tonight.” He leans in, lips just brushing my ear. “Or do you have other plans for us?”

I flush, of course, because Baz at such close range is fucking devastating. I could just melt into him and snog him here in the street.

I control myself. This is my posh date. Can’t be snogging in the street.

I tug him through the front doors and give the host a nod.

“Ah, Mr. Pitch. So good to see you again.”  
  
I freeze.

_Shit._

He’s not looking at Baz when he says that. He’s definitely not looking at Baz.

The host pulls two menus and motions us to follow him, smiling in my direction all the while. “Your usual table, Mr. Pitch.”

I don’t think Baz’s eyebrows can go up any higher. I’m sweating now, my face beet-red. I’m literally radiating heat.

I should have gotten my own account. Fuck. I hadn’t thought they’d _remember_ me.

I’d made the reservation in the app. And after all my visits here of course they fucking think I’m _Mr. Pitch_.

I’m never going to live this down.

We somehow get seated at the table, handed our menus and the host finally buggers off, tormenting me with one last “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Pitch."

There’s a look in Baz’s eyes. Amused. Thank Merlin he’s not annoyed.

But there’s a funny glint there too. A kind of proprietary smirk.

“Mr. Pitch, is it now, Simon?”

“Just a mix-up.” I grab my water glass and take a drink. “Sorry, used your reservation app.”

“Doesn’t quite explain their familiarity with you, does it though?” Baz is smiling now. He’s dazzling with that damn spell.

Well, a bit more dazzling than usual.

Fuck it, he’s always stunning.

“Uh. Well. I um might have used the app a fair bit? To check some places out, before tonight.” I can feel the sweat running down my back. My face feels hotter.

This is not going as planned. Not at all.

Baz’s smile grows even wider. He’s literally grinning at me over his menu. “Mr. Pitch. Can’t say I object much to hearing you called that, Simon.”

He looks back down at his menu sedately as I proceed to choke on my water.

“What?” It comes out garbled as I struggle to catch my breath.

Baz raises his eyebrow again. “Just something to think about. Someday.”

I proceed to choke on air this time.

And realize I haven’t objected to hearing myself called that all these weeks either.

_Fuck._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare.


	12. Such a Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18: How good would your OTP be at parenting?
> 
> 26: Which one gets more excited over the first snow of winter?
> 
> 16: Who makes the other hot chocolate?

 

 

**Simon**

 

It’s our second day in Hampshire. The sky looked like it wanted to snow all day yesterday but it finally came down overnight. I pull open the curtains in Baz’s room and the whole countryside is transformed—white and soft and shimmering in the morning sunlight.

“Baz! It finally snowed!”

Cool arms circle my waist and Baz rests his chin on my shoulder. “I should expect you’ll be out in it all day then?”

His lips brushing my ear make me shiver. Not because I’m cold.

I lean my head into him. “It is the first snow of the year.”

 

**Baz**

It got colder overnight. I haven’t bothered to build up the fire yet.

I far prefer Simon’s warmth.

I’m wrapped around him, soaking up the heat that’s radiating from his skin. That never changed, after he lost his magic. He doesn’t have that smoky, green scent anymore. But he kept the heat.

I’m grateful for it and not because it warms me when I touch him.

I’m thankful because it’s always been part of Simon and it’s something that wasn’t taken away, when he poured his magic into the Humdrum.

I miss Simon’s magic.

Not as much as he does, of course.

No one could ever miss it as much as Simon does.

He’s coping. He’s managing to live his life without it.

There are times I think I can feel it. It’s probably my imagination, my wanting to sense it again.

But I swear to Merlin there are moments when I catch the faint scent of his magic or feel the distant thrum of it when I touch him.

I know that scent. I know that magic.

I know what it felt like coursing through me, overpowering my senses, making me drunk with the overwhelming power of it. Making me warm. Making me not feel so alone.

Making me feel so connected to Simon.

It took my breath away.

We don’t talk about it much anymore, the loss of it.

I don’t want him to get his hopes up. I don’t want to get my hopes up.

The magic is coming back to the holes.

It’s been coming back slowly for months now. Little by little. Filling the places that were lost.

It started here, actually. Professor Bunce thinks it’s because this was one of the last places the Humdrum attacked. The later holes are the ones that are filling up the quickest.

The early ones are still void of magic.

My family moved back here a few months ago. It’s nearly back to what it was before, just a few small dead spots in the woods.

I walked through one the night we arrived, when I was hunting. Makes me shudder to think of it.

To think back.

I wasn’t sure if we should come. Father wanted us here for Christmas. The whole family did.

We haven’t been here since that Christmas. We’ve visited my family in Oxford, at my father’s London flat, vacationed with them in France.

But this is the first time we’ve visited Hampshire since they moved back into Pitch Manor.

I wasn’t sure how Simon would feel about coming back but he’s been absolutely enthusiastic about it.

Not about the wraiths or the gargoyles on my bed, mind you. He’s still prejudiced against them.

It’s been comforting for him to hear that the holes are filling in, I think.

Simon has taken on a lot of guilt for occurrences that were beyond his control. He’s felt responsible for the holes. For my family having to move. For magic being lost.

It’s made me think about Simon getting his magic back.

I can’t talk to him about it. I can’t let him think it might be possible. I can’t let him hope.  
  
I can’t let myself hope.

But logically if the magic is coming back to the holes then there should be the possibility of it coming back to Simon.

Professor Bunce agrees with me. We’ve talked about it, those times when we visit and Simon is occupied catching up with Bunce and her numerous siblings. He’s cautious but hopeful.

I’ve tried to push my magic into Simon. Like he used to share his with me.

It doesn’t work. I can push it to him but it doesn’t last. It lets him feel it for a moment, maybe cast a single simple spell but then it’s gone.

Having it for a moment and losing it again is almost worse than not having it at all.

I don’t do that anymore.

Simon shifts in my arms, turning to face me. He’s frowning.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking, Baz.”

“How do you know I’m thinking anything? I’m just trying to get warm. The fire’s gone out again.”

“I know you, you absolute wanker. I know that look. Whatever it is you’re obsessing about just stop.”

“I’m not the obsessive one.”

“Isn’t that a laugh.” Simon grins up at me. “You know me better than I know myself sometimes, Baz.” He pulls me closer and his lips brush over mine. “Stop it. We’re having a snow day and you’re going to enjoy yourself, if I have to make you myself.”

I lose myself in his lips, pulling back reluctantly to rest my forehead on his.

“Must I go out in the snow?”

“You know the little ‘uns will love it. You don’t have to spend all day outside.”

“You’re going to make me frolic in the snow, Simon. I don’t do that. Pitches don’t frolic.”

“Rubbish. No one’s asking you to frolic. Build a snowman or snowwraith or something with Mordelia. Pelt the twins with a snowball or two. Take Magnus down the hill once.” Simon cups my face with his hands. “Then you can come inside and curl up by the fire with a book.”

“I’d rather curl up with you. You’re warmer than the fire.”

“Is that all I am to you? A personal heater?” There’s a smirk on Simon’s face now.

“It is convenient.” I can’t keep from smiling back at him.

“Who’s going to entertain the little ‘uns if I’m keeping you warm inside?”

“They’re old enough to entertain themselves. I certainly managed, at their age.”

“Yes, but you’re an anomaly.” Simon kisses me on the nose. “Now come on, Baz. We’ve got fresh snow and sun and four little people who need to get out of the house!”

I build a snowman with Mordelia. Ophelia and Acantha end up pelting me with snowballs. Magnus won’t go sliding down the hill unless he is on my lap.

I make snow angels with Simon and kiss his flushed face until Mordelia kicks me in the shin and tells me to stop snogging.

Thinks because she’s just turned ten she’s some kind of monitor now. 

I leave Simon to the not-so-tender mercies of my younger siblings and head inside.

I don’t curl up by the fire with a book.

I stand at the window and watch Simon.

He’s a natural with children. He gets down on the floor and rolls around with Magnus. He listens carefully when Mordelia or the twins tell him stories and fancies. He asks questions about their nonsense and encourages them to tell him more.

He laughs at Ophelia’s jokes and Acantha’s terrible puns.

I don’t know where Acantha gets her penchant for puns. The twins are far too precocious for seven year olds. Almost as bad as Mordelia.

Simon’s chasing them all in the snow now, pelting them with snowballs. They make a unified attack and take him down, Magnus clutching at Simon’s leg. He’s covered with snow and trying to shove all four of them off.

Simon looks glorious.

I drink in the sight of him for another moment.

Then I head to the kitchen to tell Vera to expect a snowy maelstrom of children at any minute.

I’ll start making the hot chocolate.

 

**Simon**

My fingers are numb by the time we all get back inside. Magnus is shivering, poor little blighter, and the girls’ hair is all crusted with snow. Ophelia lost her hat somewhere out there. Acantha is missing a mitten.

I’ll have to send Baz out to magic them up later.

We tromp into the kitchen, trailing snow across the pristine floor. Vera’s eyes widen at the sight of us mucking up the space but Baz reaches us first.

He spells the mess on the floor away and then proceeds to speedily get his siblings out of their snow gear. He’s fast and efficient and tender all at the same time.

Baz doesn’t realize how he is with the little ‘uns.

He snaps at Mordelia, yeah (she has no concept of privacy) (he’s had to spell the door of his room shut) (she’s almost walked in on us) (thank Merlin for vampire hearing.)

But he’s softer than he admits. He’ll spend hours in the library reading them stories or telling them tales he just makes up on the spot.

They want Baz for bedtime stories, when he’s home. And even though it takes hours to get all four of them down he still does it. Every time.

Magnus follows him around like a little shadow. Mordelia is the only one who’s managed to get the eyebrow raise right. Doesn’t stop the rest from trying. Makes me laugh, it does.

Makes me think sometimes. Think of what he’d be like. As a father.

Then I make myself stop thinking about it because it scares me.

Because I don’t know how to do that.

I’m terrible at so many things. I’d probably be awful at that too 

And I don’t want to be awful at it.

Because it should mean something, to be a parent.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

“Stop it.” Baz hands me a cup of hot chocolate.

“Stop what?”

Baz’s arm slides around my waist. “Stop thinking. Your brow is all furrowed. You’re going to scare the children.”

He kisses my temple.

“I never scare the children. They think I’m a git.”

He pulls me closer. “You know they don’t think you’re a git. They love you more than me, I think. You’re far more congenial.”

“That I am. Not hard to manage that though. You’re piss poor competition for congeniality.”

Baz bumps his hip into mine, nearly upsetting my hot chocolate. I drink some, to keep from spilling it.

The children are all seated at the table, hot chocolate and biscuits monopolizing their attention. I rest my head on Baz’s shoulder. “I’m glad we came. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.”

 

**Baz**

 

“I know.” I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it either.

Watching Simon with the children makes me think. Think of what it would be like.

If we had our own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lou Reed song "Perfect Day"


	13. Here Comes Your Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24: Which one competes in some sort of activity and which one does the overzealous cheering

 

**1.**

**Simon**

The wind has picked up but I don’t care. I’m not cold.

I could watch Baz play football in the pouring rain.

I have watched Baz play in the pouring rain and I’d do it again.

It’s Baz’s first game of the season but Penny didn’t come with me today. Says she doesn’t have to chaperone me anymore, now that Baz and I are together and not spoiling for a fight every time we’re near each other.

Spoiling for a snog is more like it.

She’s got some group project tonight. She’s as bad as Baz about working in groups. Says she does all the work and then has to worry about some numpty making a right bollocks of it.

Baz says much the same.

So, I’m by myself tonight. I don’t mind.

I can focus all of my attention on Baz.

It’s been too long since I’ve seen Baz play.

It’s different now, not the same as when I watched him play at Watford.

Back then I had to know what he was up to all the time, to make sure he wasn’t plotting my demise, creating some nefarious plot to thwart the Mage. I wasn’t there to watch him play, I was there to scout out my nemesis.

At least that’s what I thought I was doing.

I’ve got all sorts of new sensations when I watch him play now.

Heat that spikes in my chest when Baz lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat away and I see the muscles of his abdomen.

No, felt that before.

Focusing on the muscles of his thigh contracting as his foot contacts the ball.

Done that before too.

Appreciating his utter grace and ferociousness as he races down the pitch.

Nope, I’ve had that thought.

Fuck.

That wasn’t anger or jealousy or hatred back then. It was just what I’m feeling now. An endless fascination. My eyes riveted by his form. An appreciation for the flawless physicality of him.

His long, powerful legs, the arrogant toss of his head, the unflinching focus of his gaze.

 _Fuck_.

Baz slides his hairband back into place at a pause and I think I might combust.

Baz is elegant, stylish, sophisticated. But on the football pitch he’s ruthless and graceful and fucking beautiful to watch.

I’ve thought that before too.

_Fuck._

* * *

**2.**

**Penny**

Simon’s taking two classes again this term. 

It worked out so well for him last term. I’m glad he’s sticking with the plan for the whole year. His grades were solid, he had time to meet with his therapist and he didn’t get too overwrought about his coursework.

It’s been good. It’s good now, too. 

But I think he’s got too much time on his hands. Too much time to think.

Baz is taking a full load and so am I. I’m not home all that much. 

Neither is Baz.

Baz may technically live with his aunt Fiona but he’s here on a regular basis. I don’t mind too much.

He’s surprisingly good company and it helps to talk things through with him.

School things and Simon things.

Baz usually shows up in the evenings. Brings his laptop and his notebooks. He ends up spending most nights here, sleeping in Simon’s room.

Unless he’s got a big project or Simon really needs to study.

I’m not saying Baz doesn’t help Simon with his coursework. He does, same as I do.

But sometimes those two are more distractions to each other than help. Makes me roll my eyes. They think I can’t see them. 

They aren’t subtle. Not anymore.

Not that they ever really were, if you stop and think about it. I can see their quick, searing glances. The long, intense stares. Simon’s face flushing and Baz actually showing a spot of color.

It’s like Watford all over again except now I know why they’re so obsessed with each other.

Simon’s bumped my foot by accident under the table when he’s been trying to find Baz’s. I’ve watched them reach for each other. I know Simon’s got his hand on Baz’s leg, even if I can’t see it.

Baz thinks he doesn’t react but he’s wrong. He’s too self-possessed to startle but I’ve seen his eyes widen a bit and his face relax when Simon does it. And then he gets this little smile. It vexes me to admit it but that smile of his is so endearing.

I didn’t know Baz could look like that, so soft and content and relaxed. He looks like that more and more now, when he’s with Simon.

That’s a good thing.

Simon’s much the same. He just melts into Baz when they’re watching a film together on the sofa. Leans into him when they’re studying at the table. Just finds a way to touch him, somehow.

Once I became friends with Simon I made sure to hug him, touch him on the arm or just stay near him. He’d never had much physical touch before Watford and I knew he needed it. Needed to feel someone wanted him, that someone cared enough to want him near.

I still do that. Simon still needs that from me. But I’m glad he’s got Baz too. For that and more.

I don’t want to think about the _more_. I’m trying to be tolerant of all the snogging they do.

For such a private person Baz is surprisingly open about his attraction to Simon now. He’s got no qualms about wrapping his arms around him or kissing him in front of me.

And Simon’s revels in it. Oh, he blushes and says “ _Baz_ ” in this completely sappy tone of voice which does nothing but egg Baz on. Simon’s just as affectionate to Baz.

He wasn’t like that with Agatha. They’d hold hands but I never saw him give her more than a kiss on the cheek when we were all together. They’d never cling to each other the way Baz and Simon do. Never be so aware of each other the way these two are.

The way Baz and Simon have always been about each other. Like they can’t tear their eyes away.

It’s good for them both, I think, to have someone. 

But that doesn’t mean that all this free time is good for Simon. He’s got hours during the week when Baz and I are busy. I think he needs a hobby or a job or something.

I’ve told him so. Told him he needs something other than coursework and thinking too much to occupy his time.

There’s a job opening at the café down the street. The bookshop near campus needs help too. Or he could volunteer somewhere.

He just shrugs when I mention it. Typical.

I’ve spoken to Baz about it. He agrees with me. But he’s not going to push Simon into anything he doesn’t want to do, the besotted sap.

Honestly there are times I miss the sardonic Baz that could goad Simon into doing ridiculous things.

 

**Baz**

I’ve been doing some research. Simon would call it plotting but he’s biased by the past.

I was rarely plotting. At least not after fifth year. 

Not after the chimaera.

Fantasizing about kissing him–yes. Daydreaming about a time when he would look at me without the rancor and distrust in his eyes–definitely. Dreading the final confrontation we were doomed to have–always.

This is different.

Simon’s got too much time on his hands.

I don’t mean his class load is too light. It is light but it’s just what he needs. What he needs to give him the confidence that he can do this, that he can succeed at uni.

And he is. He’s doing so well in his classes. Better than he ever did at Watford. It was a good suggestion by his therapist and I’m thankful he listened. It has given him confidence. I think he plans to add another course to his schedule next year. And he’ll be fine doing just that.

It doesn’t matter how long it takes him to finish his degree. The only thing that matters is Simon successfully completing it. 

But he still has too many hours in the day when he’s alone. Alone with his thoughts. That’s not always a good thing with Simon.

I know Bunce has tried to get him to look for a job. She wants him to work at that coffee shop near here. I don’t think he’d mind that. He’d be surrounded by food and coffee—that’s heaven for Simon.

I’m not sure a job is the best distraction though.

I think he needs something more physical. Simon’s always been exceptionally fit. It was something I tried not to dwell on at Watford.

He still is fit. He runs and he goes to the campus gym to work out regularly. 

But it’s not like it used to be, when he knew his physical condition meant the difference between life and death for him.

I’m glad it’s not that desperate anymore. But I think Simon still needs that release, the high intensity physical activity that he used to get chasing after dark creatures at the Mage’s direction, defending himself from goblins, escaping hordes of flibbertigibbets.

It’s not that the goblins aren’t around. They are. They don’t seem to care that he doesn’t have magic anymore, that he’s not a threat to them at all currently. 

They still have a price on his head.

It’s part of the reason I don’t like him just wandering around London by himself, without magic. I never know when a goblin might sneak up on him. They can glamour themselves. Simon knows that first hand.

He does quite a bit of wandering around. Simon loves London. He loves the history, the quaint neighborhoods, the endless markets and food stalls. 

Especially the food stalls.

I recently discovered that the incorrigible muppet has been traipsing all over the city to find me fresh blood. He’s set up a weekly collection route for himself to acquire it for me.

It brought me to tears when I found out. Simon wouldn’t come clean and admit how much work he put into it. Downplayed it.

But I know.

I know how he is. Simon gives his all, when he’s decided to pursue a course of action.

He does things like that, thoughtful kind things, that make me love him even more. As if that were even possible, to love him more than I already do.

But he’s Simon Snow. He’s always made the impossible happen.

I’m not sure a job is the right fit but I do think fencing might be.

Metropolitan has a fencing club. Even if they didn’t there are quite a few independent clubs in London. I think that would be perfect for Simon. He’s brilliant with a sword. Even if he hasn’t been classically trained he’s got the instincts and reflexes for it.

It won’t be the same style he used with the Sword of Mages. I’m not even sure what Simon used to do could be called a style. It was power and instinct. Random swings and hacking. Unexpectedly precise execution and awe-inspiring skill.

It took my breath away.

Fencing would give him all of that.

Perhaps with the exception of the hacking.

It would give Simon that part of him back, I think. The part he always thought was the best of him. 

Except without the killing.

I’d love to see him have that again.

 

**Simon**

Baz has been going on about this fencing club at Metropolitan for weeks now. Just like Penny’s been harping on the café.

I think I’m doing fine as I am. My grades are better than I expected them to be. Studying with Penny and Baz helps.

Not having to dash off to chase after bloody were-beasts or flibbertigibbets or any of those other foul creatures helps too.

I’m not quite sure I want a job. I’ve got a fair bit of the leprechaun money at the bank now. I don’t need more money, really. I’m getting by.

The thought of making coffee to order for people I don’t know and running the till makes me anxious. I’m not any good at that sort of thing. And the bloody wings and tail don’t help. I’ll likely to be knocking things down or tripping people up and I don’t fancy that one bit.

I don’t like the attention and I don’t like being shouted at. Never have.

Bookshop’s not a much better option. I’m no good with books. I know fuck all about authors, genres, styles. Honestly the thought of it makes me more agitated than the café.

I always read for classes at Watford but it was effort. I couldn’t concentrate. Not like Baz. He’s so focused, so intense. Like Penny but more.

I can be intense too, just not about schoolwork. I’m not saying I can’t read. I can read. I just don’t do it for fun, like Baz and Penny do.

I’m trying. Baz has brought some of his favorite books from home for me. Books he loved when he was younger, books he likes to reread. He reads them out loud to me sometimes, at night.

I love the sound of his voice. It’s rich and deep. Used to irritate me, it did, his posh accent. The precise way he would say things. Drove me mad. I’d always fumble around for words, stumble over getting them out. Couldn’t get what was in my brain out my mouth.

It’s better now. It got marginally better each year at Watford. And then I found I didn’t always need words, with Baz. 

After.

He just knew, somehow. It’s easier to speak when I know he’s listening so intently. When he’s so patient with me. When I discovered just how much he wants to hear what I have to say.

But the bookshop is still a definite no, even if I am trying to read more.

Don’t know why they’re all worked up about me finding something to do. I’ve plenty to do.

I’ve got schoolwork. I’m exploring London. I’m learning to cook. I’m rubbish at it but I’m getting better. 

Slightly better.

Still end up having to get emergency take-out sometimes, when things don’t go quite as planned.

I try to keep the flat tidy, since Penny’s out more than I am. And because Baz is over so much.

He’s an obsessive neat freak. Always has been. It’s fun to get him riled sometimes but I like it better when he’s soft. When we’re both soft.

He’s been going on and on about this fencing club again tonight. Seems to be convinced I’d like it. 

Can’t imagine I would. Bunch of posh tossers, feinting and leaping about on a mat in those tight kits.

I don’t know the first thing about fencing. They’d laugh me right out of there.

I’m sure I’d hate it.

 

**Baz**

He’s a natural just as I predicted. Had to chivvy him into it but I do have significant skills in persuasion. 

Distracted him enough to get him to say yes. Simon says that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t thinking clearly when he agreed. All’s fair in love and war, as far as I’m concerned, and we are most assuredly done with the war part.

Simon hung back a bit the first time I made him come here. I could tell he felt awkward and out of place. They were posh tossers, just as he’d expected. They knew how to fence, better than Simon did, but they didn’t have the experience or instinct that he does.

It didn’t take him long to get comfortable with the sabre. To have it appear as a simple extension of his hand. He didn’t know the names of the thrusts and parries, the styles or defenses the others employed. But he knew how to block them. Knew how to get past their defenses.

Simon’s more well versed in the rules now. He’s familiar with the terminology. He might not be the best yet but he never lets up, never gives an inch. Simon’s technique is unorthodox but it’s effective.

It’s been just what he needs to let his aggressions out. To channel some of his frustration and anger in a positive way.

He’s magnificent to watch. Not for his technical prowess, not yet at least, but for his raw power and indefatigability.

I love watching him duel. This side of Simon has always captivated me, the raw physicality of him, the simmering violence, the ferocity just below the surface.

Because I’m disturbed. Ask anyone.

Still it always riveted me to watch him wade into battle. Even if it was against me.

I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

We still fight, of course. How could we not? 

But it’s different now, with my sharpness blunted, his frustration lessened. It’s not as devastating. Not as fierce. Not as excruciating.

“Get your arm up, Snow!” I bellow. He’s got the height advantage in this match but he’s not pressing it. “Watch your back leg.”

I can see the coach give me the side-eye. I don’t care. I know Simon better than anyone here. I’ve watched him move, fight, defend, for almost a decade. I can hone in on his problem spots instantly.

“You’ve got him, Simon! One more touch and it’s over.” 

Bunce huffs from next to me. “Really, Baz.” She crosses her arms and frowns at me. “It’s not like he’s trying out for the Olympic team.” 

Bunce is not a fan of sport. I know the only reason she ever came to my football matches at Watford was because Simon dragged her there. He still tries to drag her to them, when I’ve a match now at uni. 

I return the favor and bring her along to his matches. She’d come anyway, even if I didn’t. She’s loyal and supportive, Bunce is. But that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s interested or invested. 

Not like I am.  

I shout myself hoarse at Simon’s matches. It embarrasses him but he’s never asked me to stop. 

I’ve seen how he looks for me when he’s finished. How he flushes when he’s won and our eyes meet. 

That’s my boyfriend out on that strip, sweat dripping from his matted curls, his fencing whites hugging his powerful biceps and exquisitely snug around his thighs. 

 Simon Snow is my boyfriend and I couldn’t be prouder of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Pixies song Here Comes Your Man.


End file.
